love poetry

Fair and good it is to me when once again I see the leaf on the bough and the fresh flower, when the birds sing in the greenwood tree, and the true lovers are gay with love. Lover and in love am I, but I have suffered so many woes for so long that I am a little crazy.
But I love with all my reason and desire both Love and Youth and all that's beautiful to me; at the touch of joy I live and am renewed like the fruit on the bough when the birds sing: for in my heart I have leaves and flowers which keep me green and happy all the year, wherefore I feel no pain.

Then was I one with Him, O brother: I met my love and found true knowledge.

By the touch of the magic stone I was the giver of bliss: then the folly of distinction was cast away.
In Malayagiri I found the secret: then delusions of race, and caste and family were done away.

The water, brought near to the ocean of Hari, to the uttermost drop was absorbed therein.
Vanished the secrets of all varied illusions: then in the one colour Dadu was dyed.

Dearest, I know that thy body is but transitory; that the kindled life, thy shining eyes, shall be quenched by the touch of death, I know; that this thy body, the meeting-place of all beauty, in seeing which I count my life well-lived, shall become but a heap of bones, I know. Yet I love thy body. Day by day afresh through it have I satisfied a woman's love and desire by serving thy feet and worshipping thee. On days of good omen I have decked thee with a flower-garland; on days of woe I have wiped away with my sari end thy tears of grief.

Easance and strength and sense from me ravished clean
Of a stony-hearted, silver-eared fair have been;

An agile, Peri-like, humoursome, tricksy maid,
A subtle, moon-favoured, open-vest wearing quean.

For the heat of the fire of the frenzy of love for her,
I'm still, like the cauldron, a-boil with dole and teen.

If her, like the tunic, I had in my embrace,
Shift-like, I were tranquil ever of mind and mien.

At her oppression I carp not, for, thorns without,
The rose none findeth nor stingless is honey seen.

O long black hair of love,
In your dark shades a dove,
My heart, circles in rings,
Beating white wings.

Ho, parrot, thou Love's mysteries That utt'rest still,
God grant that sugar never lack Unto thy bill!

Green be thy head and glad thy heart For evermore!
Since well the Friend's down limned for us Is by thy skill.

Friends with hard sayings thou bespeak'st For heaven's sake,
Unravel thou this maze, that all May read who will!

Upon our faces, drowsed with sleep, O Fortune wake,
Somewhat of rosewater from out The goblet spill!

What tune was this the minstrel smote Upon the strings,

In the heaven, O Loved One, sound thy flute again.
From the whirlpool's depth let no eddies swirl: to my eyes apply the salve.
The flute, that charmed gods, men and munis, make me to hear thy flute, O Loved One.
Come, bring the key, undo the lock: reveal to me thy beauteous form.
Dharm Das prays with clasped hands: Set me behind thy lotus feet.

Drink the cup — inebriate thy soul: the cup of the nectar of Hari's love.

Childhood was lost in play and laughter: in youth woman enslaved thee.
In age phlegm and vapours beset thee: thy body thou couldst not stir one inch.

Thou didst not frequent the company of Sants, nor seek out lesson or hymn: nor didst thou fix thy love on the feet of the Lord.
Yet even now take thought and understand, O foolish: in this world there is none thine own.

Lust, anger, pride, coveting and envy: night and day thou remainest in their toils.

I

She is slim and supple and not yet fourteen,
The young spring-tip of a cardamon-spray.
On the Yang-chou Road for three miles in the breeze
Every pearl-screen is open. But there's no one like her.

II

How can a deep love seem deep love,
How can it smile, at a farewell feast?
Even the candle, feeling our sadness,
Weeps, as we do, all night long.

A DIRGE

I.

Blyth days are gane
And on comes winter weary O,
Wi' the lang nichts and cauld
Aye sae eerie
For them lie their lane.

II.

Snaw haps the hills —
The leafless woods are dreary O,
And the sma' birds that sing
And would cheer me,
Nae mair gie their trills.

III.

Cauld, cauld and blae