love poetry

Because Thy Love hath sought me,
All mine is Thine and Thine is mine:
Because Thy Blood hath bought me,
I will not be mine own but Thine.

I lift my heart to Thy Heart,
Thy Heart sole resting-place for mine:
Shall Thy Heart crave for my heart,
And shall not mine crave back for Thine?

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee,—nor what deeds are thine:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!

I have a garden of my own,
Shining with flowers of every hue;
I love it dearly while alone,
But I shall love it more with you:
And there the golden bees shall crone,
In summertime at break of morn,
And wake us with their busy hum
Around the Siha's fragrant thorn.

I have a fawn from Aden's land,
On leafy buds and berries nurst;
And you shall feed him from your hand,
Though he may start with fear at first.
And I will lead you where he lies
For shelter in the noon-tide heat;
And you may touch his sleepy eyes,

To me no pastime sweeter seems
Than through the woods to go,
Where throstle sings and falcon screams,
Where leap the hart and roe.

O would my love a throstle were
And sang on yonder spray;
Or, like a roe, came bounding fair—
I'd hunt her all the day!

One day in the bloom of a violet
I found a simple word;
And my heart went softly humming it,
Till the violet must have heard.

And deep in the depth of a crimson rose
A writing showed so plain,
I scanned it over in veriest joy
To the patter of summer rain.

And then from the grateful mignonette
I read—ah, such a thing!
That the glad tears fell on it like dew,
And my soul was ready to sing.

A few little words! Before that day
I never had taken heed;
But, oh, how I blessed the love that came—

Curr dhoo, curr dhoo,
Love me, and I'll love you.

In the strength of the endeavor,
In the temper of the giver,
In the loving of the lover,
Lies the hidden recompense.

In the sowing of the sower,
In the fleeting of the flower,
In the fading of each hour,
Lurks eternal recompense.

Bring me no more flowers. Bring me cypress branches in which to plunge my face.

When the sun has disappeared behind the mountains I put on my robe of blue with the thin sleeves and go and sleep among the bamboos which she loved.

I cannot believe that I am of wind,
For earth and wind can match a god.
I cannot believe in writing so …
What would you do
If I must mind
The world of blossom's
Lay and peace?—
The rest of love
And charm's uncease?
I cannot believe the find.

My love
Knows no destination
And has no goal;
I think only
Of meeting as its limit.