love poetry

O flowers, did you see my love ? O bulbuls,
Won't you help me find where he has gone ?

Seeking him among flowers, I asked the yemberzals
If he who had charmed me had now come to visit them.

The excited pomegranate blossoms flushed the garden red -
Their flaming colour a symbol of my new-born fire of love !

O come to me on the pretext of visiting flowers -
It won't be a lie, for you will make my garden bloom !

How would he know how I nursed love's agony ?
A love-lore heart lay languishing in silence !

O flame of living love,
That dost eternally
Pierce through my soul with so consuming heat,
Since there's no help above,
Make thou an end of me,
And break the bond of this encounter sweet.

O burn that burns to heal!
O more than pleasant wound!
And O soft hand, O touch most delicate,
That dost new life reveal,
That dost in grace abound,
And, slaying, dost from death to life translate!

O lamps of fire that shined
With so intense a light,
That those deep caverns where the senses live,

O cool is the valley now
And there, love, will we go
For many a choir is singing now
Where Love did sometime go.
And hear you not the thrushes calling,
Calling us away?
O cool and pleasant is the valley
And there, love, will we stay.

O beautiful sun wearer,
with the sun in thy crest!
Come and meet me,
come and meet me,
Meet me to day,
and greet me with a kiss;
Thy love is all my life.
In the name of thy beautiful, beatific vision,
Come to me,
my love! Come to me!

Love, my heart is faint with waiting,
Faint with hope and joy deferred,
All night long at this sad grating,
Sleepless like a prisoned bird,
Singing low,
Singing slow:
Come, ah come, love.--Not a word!

Love, in vain for thee this token
Did I tie, poor silken cord,
To my window. See, 'tis broken
And the strands fly heavenward.
All are free,
All but me.
Come, ah come, love.--Not a word!

Lo, the first sad streak of morning
Cleaves the heaven like a sword.

I love thy skies, thy sunny mists,
Thy fields, thy mountains hoar,
Thy wind that bloweth where it lists-
Thy will, I love it more.

I love thy hidden truth to seek
All round, in sea, on shore;
The arts whereby like gods we speak-
Thy will to me is more.

I love thy men and women, Lord,
The children round thy door;
Calm thoughts that inward strength afford-
Thy will than these is more.

But when thy will my life doth hold
Thine to the very core,
The world, which that same will doth mould,

Now what is Love, I pray thee, tell?
It is that fountain and that well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell;
It is, perhaps, the sauncing bell
That tolls all into heaven or hell;
And this is Love, as I hear tell.

Yet what is Love, I prithee, say?
It is a work on holiday,
It is December matched with May,
When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play;
And this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good shepherd, sain?
It is a sunshine mixed with rain,

Now that I have won
Long despaired of peace,
And those fears are flown
That vext so my heart's ease;

Shall I wish my love
Had found a path more smooth,
With no thorns to prove
Its constancy and truth?

Wish those nights not spent,
Long, unhappy nights,
Which in sighings went
Over lost delights?

Wish those tears unwept,
When you seemed unkind?
Nay; for these pangs kept
Love steadfast in my mind.

Out of these he came
Stronger, tenderer; tried

Now all the lovely days are past,
The hours of sun and leagues of sea,
And starry nights that lay between
Yourself and me.
Our boat has left the sea behind.
She lies beside the friendly dock.
And soon the gangway will go down,
And lips will meet, and hands will lock,
And carriers will come climbing up
To take my things and leave us free.
There's trams and streets and home at last
For you and me.

Not speaking of the way,
Not thinking of what comes after,
Not questioning name or fame,
Here, loving love,
You and I look at each other.