A SOUL'S SWEETNESS
He. O maiden of my soul! What odour from the orange hast thou stole, That breathes about thy breast with such sweet power? What sweetness, unto me More sweet than amber honey to the bee That builds in the oaken hole, And sucks the essential summer of the year To store with sweetest sweets her hollow tower? Or is it breath of basil, maiden dear? Or of the immortal flower?
She. By the sweet heavens, young lover! No odour from the orange have I stole; Nor have I robb'd for thee, Dearest the amber dower Of the building bee, From any hollow tower In oaken bole: But if, on this poor breast thou dost discover Fragrance of such sweet power, Trust me, O my beloved and my lover, 'Tis not of basil, nor the immortal flower, But from a virgin soul. O. M.
LXXXIX
REMINISCENCES
He. "And art thou wed, my beloved? My Beloved of long ago?"
She. "I am wed, my Beloved. And I have given A child to this world of woe. And the name I have given my child is thine: So that, when I call to me my little one, The heaviness of this heart of mine For a little while may be gone. For I say not ... 'Hither, hither, my son!' But ... 'Hither, my Love, my Beloved.'"
XC
SLEEP AND DEATH
The morning is growing: the cocks are crowing: Let me away, love, away!