love poetry

My way, like the breeze, To the Loved One's abode I will make;
My soul musky-breathed With the dust of her road I will make.

All honour and fame, That by learning and faith I have won,
As dust in the path Of that lovely one strowed I will make.

To waste, without wine And beloved, life lapseth amain;
Henceforward away With idleness' load I will make.

Where's the wind of the East? For my soul, blood-besteeped like the rose,
On the scent of her locks, As strewage, bestowed I will make.

I said :
" If I come to you, will your lips kiss mine? "
She said :
" Have you a thousand lips that you should ask me? "
I said :
" Your raven locks are like black cobras. "
She said :
" Fool — would you trust a hooded cobra's sting? "
I said :
" How then shall I conquer your love? "
She said :
" Can you cut off a head without a sword? "

I said :

Sawest thou, o heart, the havoc That Love's pain hath wrought?
What, departing, she with lovers, True in vain, hath wrought?

That ensorcelling narcissus, What a game 't hath played!
And that tipsy one to sober Folk what bane hath wrought!

As the afterglow my tears are For her lovelessness.
See, what devastation Fortune Inhumane hath wrought!

Flashed from Leila's camp a levin In the dawn: alack
For what it with Mejnoun's harvest, Sorrow-slain, hath wrought!

Wine! None knoweth what the Limner Of th' Invisible,

A rock stands harmless from a little rain
But many storms will wear its strength away;
And thus in life when men and women say
Those bitter words which hasten strife and pain,
And still repeat till hope of peace is vain;
Lo! as the hour-glass sands divide the day
So these small things have parted them for aye,
And Love through such harsh means itself hath slain.

A venomed adder is the human tongue
When tipped with anger, be it either sex;
And who when stirred with controversy, recks

Alas! the blush upon my cheek,
Conceal it as I may,
Proclaims to all that I'm in love,
Till people smile and say —
" Where are thy thoughts to-day?"

Love without passion is a flower without sun,
Reft of the wind's touch, banished from the rain
Wrought against nature — therefore wrought in vain
However fine its tissue may be spun;
Its petals fade and wither one by one
And in the dust and under dust are lain;
Love without passion is the dying strain
From shattered lutes that all to minors run.

True love is as the rose; the roses glow
With life and color in the summer air.
The winds of Autumn through the garden blow,
The leaves are scattered and the vines are bare,

Here on one side of the stream I stand,
And gaze on my love on the other strand.
Oh! not to be with her, what sadness!
Oh! not to be with her, what madness!

If but a red-lacquered skiff were mine,
With paddles strewn over with pearls so fine,
Then would I pass the river,
And dwell with my love for ever!

To the new blown rose the bulbul Spake this word at break of day,
" Leave disdain, for, like thee, many Here have bloomed and passed away. "

Laughingly the rose made answer, " Vexed we are not by the truth;
" But hard words to the Beloved Never should the lover say. "

Never was Love's fragrance wafted To his palate who his cheek
On the threshold of the winehouse Never in the dust did lay.

Those who covet wine of rubies From the jewelled cup of Love,
Many a pearl and many a jacinth With the eyelash pierce must they.

Where in spring the sweetest flowers
Fill Mount Kaminabi's bowers,
Where in autumn, dyed with red,
Each ancient maple rears its head,
And Aska's flood, with sedges lin'd,
As a belt the mound doth bind: —
There see my heart, — a reed that sways,
Nor aught but love's swift stream obeys,
And now, if, like the dew, dear maid,
Life must fade, then let it fade :
My secret love is not in vain,
For thou lov'st me back again.

The sea of Love a sea is, Whereunto shore is not;
There, saving soul-surrender, Resource in store is not.

Affright us not with Reason's Forbidments, but bring wine:
With us in credit yonder Apparitor is not.

Each moment that thou givest The heart to Love is good;
Need, in good works, of praying, Direction for, is not.

Ask thou thine eye who slew us O soul of mine, the blame
For this to lay at Heaven's Or Fortune's door is not.

Thy face with pure eyes only, New-moon like, can one see: