Come, my Belovèd, come—behold, the skies
Are fragrant with the evening scents and dew:
My soul hath sickened for Thy lips and eyes,
And laden is with rue!
Oh, Thou shalt fly with soft wings like a dove’s
And hold me fast beyond all fate and fear,
And we ’mid flowers shall tell our flowering loves
Where no one else can hear!
THE LOVER
AN hour ago I saw Thee ride in gold
Along the burning highways of the skies;
And now—Thou comest with soft and suppliant eyes,
And fearing lest Thy love seem overbold.
In this dear garden set with flower and tree,
My soul, a maiden whom a great king woos,
Stands thrilled and silent—Lord, what can she choose,
Dumbfounded by Thy strange humility?
Since Thou wilt have it so, my Lord, I bare
In love and shamefastness my soul—Thy soul—
So lay Thy tender hand, an aureole,
Upon my beating heart, my chrismed hair.