Classic Poem

A MONG the dancers I beheld her dance,
Her who alone is my heart's sustenance.

So, as she danced, I took this wound of her;
Alas! the flower of flowers, she did not fail.
Woe 's me! I will be Jew and blasphemer
If the good god of Love do not prevail
To bring me to thy grace, oh! thou most fair.
My lady and my lord! alas for wail!
How many days and how much sufferance?

Oh! would to God that I had never seen
Her face, nor had beheld her dancing so!
Then had I missed this wound which is so keen—
Yea, mortal—for I think not to win through
Unless her love be my sweet medicine;
Whereof I am in doubt, alas for woe!
Fearing therein but such a little chance.

She was apparelled in a Syrian cloth,
My lady:—oh! but she did grace the same,
Gladdening all folk, that they were nowise loth
At sight of her to put their ills from them.
But upon me her power hath had such growth
That nought of joy thenceforth, but a live flame,
Stirs at my heart,—which is her countenance.

Sweet-smelling rose, sweet, sweet to smell and see,
Great solace had she in her eyes for all;
But heavy woe is mine; for upon me
Her eyes, as they were wont, did never fall.
Which thing if it were done advisedly,
I would choose death, that could no more appal,
Not caring for my life's continuance.