love poem

I have known beauty, I have walked with love
And I have held a child against my breast—
How then shall I fear pain or grief or death,
Being so blest?

Rather a song in my heart
With flashing wings,
Rather a jeweled dream
Than the wealth of kings.

Rather the pain of loving
Than all things sweet,
Rather the thought of you
Than the world at my feet.

I am not afraid of love that grows from a spark
To an all-consuming flame,
Though it wrap my life in a mantle of scarlet pain —
Though it blister my soul with shame.

But I am afraid of love that is born a flame
And slowly dies to a spark.
I am afraid of the bitter ashes of love —
Afraid of the dark!

I hate the man who o'er the wine-brimmed bowl
Sings ever of war and conquest; he delights
Me most who wit with lyric gifts unites,
And to love's charms divine gives up his soul.

Come ho! sweet page, pray fetch for me
A flagon of my favourite wine,
And let it mixed with water be.
(I will be moderate, I opine)
For I am fain once more to prove
The nectarous joys of wine and love.

The god of love I sing
Who garlands bears of many-coloured flowers;
Hearts ever conquering,
Mightiest of masters, subtle power of powers,
Thou rul'st the gods and all
Mortals thy wiles enthrall.

When Love beholds my beard that flows
White as the ocean's snowy spray,
He flies me swift as the eagle's flight
On rustling wings of golden light,
And seems to murmur as he goes,
“Old fellow, you have had your day.”

O Eros, conqueror of hearts, with whom
Disport the blue-eyed nymphs and Cypris fair:
With eyes uplift to Ida's leafy gloom
I breathe to thee a prayer.

The maid for whom I glow thy power defies.
Her snow-cold bosom melt with thy fond fire;
That she moved by my importunities
May grant my heart's desire.

O bear me hence, Love, toward the sky
Wrapt in a sun-gilt purple cloud,
And stay me with thy pinions bright.
Thou hast fired my soul to seek delight
In Paphian pleasures, but the proud
White Lesbian nymph for whom I sigh
From my white tresses mocking turns,
And for a younger lover burns.

Not to love indeed is pain,
Painful 'tis to be love's thrall,
But to love and love in vain
Is the greatest pain of all.
Vain is learning, genius, wit,
Since men bow alone to gold;
Birth and breeding, lineage old —
All are trampled on by it.

Cursed be he who first to light
Brought this sordid metal, may
He be plunged in endless night,
And his memory fade away.
Gold rends every sacred tie,
Friendship breaks and kindred parts;
Envy breeds, and hardens hearts,
Kindles strife and enmity.