Thy door I seek as pilgrims seek a shrine:
Thine eyes are roses, new-blown eglantine;
Thy tongue a pen, thy hands like paper fine,
A flower fresh from the sea thou art, my love!
Within my soul thy hand has placed love’s seed;
Thy wiles and coyness make my heart to bleed:
Thy Sayat Nova thou hast slain indeed,
Thine evil fate he bears for thee, my love.
