love poem

THE SONG OF LOVE'S NURSE

O moon! sleep, sleep thou, for this night
The cry " O Lord! " upon thine ear shall smite;
Though formed, its purpose is yet hid from sight,
It shall be seen — the stars' potential might.
Thou'lt be the roast upon the spit of pain!

O Rosebud! sleep thou then this little while;
The Sphere's design against thee sooth is vile,
For pitiless is it and strong in guile;
Ah! never trust it, even though it smile.

ANSWER TO HER QUESTION, WHAT LOVE WAS .

If I behold your eyes,
Love is a paradise:
But if I view my heart,
'Tis an infernal smart.

F RAGMENT

Think not that with Kevser's praises hearts become of joy full;
Preacher, rather doth the tale of mouth and kiss the soul rule.
Thinking of her rubies red, whene'er I drink tobacco,
The nargila's a flask of wine, the pipe-bowl is a sumbul.
Know how holy is her land: — who dwelleth in Edirna,
Ere he to the Ka'ba bends, doth turn him to Istambul.

Let him be sold as he sleeps in his mother's arms, let him be sold! Why should such a wastrel be nourished?
He was born snub-nosed and winged; he scratches savagely with his nails, he laughs and cries at once; moreover he is obstinate, ever-talking, sharp-sighted, wild, and not even gentle to his mother. A complete monster.
Let him be sold. If any merchant, just about to sail, wishes to buy a slave, let him step forward.
But see! he begs, he weeps! I will not sell you! Be happy, you shall stay and grow up near Zenophile.

I make a proclamation after wild Love, who flew from my bed this very morning.
He is a child, causing-sweet-tears, ever-talking, sharp, fearless, laughing with wrinkled nose, winged on his back and carrying a quiver.
I cannot tell who was his father, for neither the Air, the Earth nor the Sea would boast of begetting him; everywhere and by every one he is hated. Take care he does not set new snares in your souls!
But look! there he is in his lair. I see you, little arrowshooter, hiding in Zenophile's eyes!

Terrible — O Love, you are terrible!
What use is it for me to lament, saying again and again: " Love is terrible " ? He laughs at me; he is glad to be abused; he feeds upon curses!
It is a marvel to me, Aphrodite, how you who were born from the hoary sea, brought forth fire from water!

O God, when I kneel down to pray
Heed only then the words I say
And do not listen to my heart
Which mutters to itself apart.
I say, " God bless my enemies. "
Then take my word and bless them, please;
Be deaf to that fierce self which still
Murmurs, " But ah! I wish them ill! "

I say, " Dear God, Thy will is best, "
But loud and angry in my breast
This untamed heart is crying, " Nay,
" Not Thine, but mine; I want my way. "
Two selves that struggle — one loves sin,

Phaebus of all the Gods I wish to be;
Not of the world to have the overseeing:
For of all things in the world's circuit being,
One only thing I always wish to see.
Not of all herbs the hidden force to know,
For ah! my wound by herbs cannot be cured:
Not in the sky to have a place assured,
For my ambition lies on earth below;
Not to be prince of the celestial quire,
For I one nymph prize more than all the Muses:
Not with his bow to offer love abuses,
For I Love's vassal am, and dread his ire:

While love in you did live, I only lived in you;
While you for me did burn, for you alone I burned;
While you did sigh for me, for you I sighed and mourned;
Till you proved false to me, to you I was most true.
But since love died in you, in you I live no more,
Your heart a servant new, mine a new saint enjoyeth:
My sight offends your eyes, mine eyes your sight annoyeth:
Since you held me in scorn, by you I set no store.
Yet if dead love [revive], if your late flames return,
If you lament your change, and count me your sole treasure,

What is Love? Is Love in this,
That flies between us, in a kiss?
Nay, what is Love? Is Love the zest,
That wakes, when I unloose my breast?
But what is Love? Say now: who knows,
Or where he lurks, or how he shows? The Answer:

Dearest, Truth is stern, I fear:
Love, as yet, can scarce be here.

Love is poor; nay, Love is sorry;
Tears, not kisses, chiefly stay him:
His sad weeds best tell his story;
Vain delights befool, bewray him.