I have made a compact with the mistress of my soul,
that so long as I have a soul within my body
I will hold as mine own soul the well-wishers of her village.
In the privacy of my breast I see light from that taper of Chighil;
splendor to mine eye and brightness to my heart
from that moon of Khoten.
Since in accordance with my wishes and yearnings
I have gained the privacy of my breast,
why need I care for the slander of evil speakers
in the midst of the crowd?
If a hundred armies of lovely ones should be lying in ambush

The S HULAMITE M AIDEN Recounts H ER L OVER'S W OOING

The voice of my beloved!
Behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains,
Skipping upon the hills.

My beloved is like a roe or a young hart:
Behold, he standeth behind our wall,
He looketh forth at the windows,
He showeth himself through the lattice.

My beloved spake, and said unto me:
Rise up, my love!
Rise up, my fair one!
And come away;

Love will outwatch the stars, and light the skies
When the last star falls, and the silent dark devours;
God's warrior, he will watch the allotted hours,
And conquer with the look of his sad eyes:
He shakes the kingdom of darkness with his sighs,
His quiet sighs, while all the Infernal Powers
Tremble and pale upon their central towers,
Lest, haply, his bright universe arise.

All will be well if he have strength to wait,
Till his lost Pleiad, white and silver-shod,
Regains her place to make the perfect Seven;

Because you are dead, so many words they say,
If you could hear them, how they crowd, they crowd;
" Dying for England — but you must be proud " —
And " Greater love, honour, a debt to pay, "
And " Cry dear, " someone says; and someone " Pray! "
What do they mean, their words that throng so loud?

This, dearest; that for us there will not be
Laughter and joy of living dwindling cold,
Ashes of words that dropped in flame, first told;
Stale tenderness, made foolish suddenly.
This only, heart's desire, for you and me,

Where the purple heather blooms
Among the rocks sae gray—
Where the moor-cock's whirring flight,
Is heard at break of day—
Where Scotland's bagpipes ring
Alang the mountain's breast—
Where laverocks lilting sing,
Is the place that I love best!

Where the lonely shepherd tends
His bleating hill-side flock—
Where the raven bigs its nest
In the crevice of a rock—
Where a guardian beacon-tower
Seems ilk rugged mountain's crest,
To watch aboon auld Scotland's glens,
Is the place that I love best!

A white, high-battlemented castle,
Set in the heart and centre of a rainbow,
With rain-weighed trees nodding around it,
And a great sward flowing up and down;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

A summer pool by silence haunted,
Deep in the greenness lit by water-lilies,
Where there are kingfishers, and the unreaped grasses
Whisper soft secrets to the listless winds;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

And night, and the stars, and naught beside,
But in your heart of hearts a brimming wonder,

Gods, get me out of it!
Spirits of Laughter
Come to my aid now
And exorcise it!
O you, Priapus,
Stand till you're skyward,
Stand till you're all staff
And cannot rise it!
Let your preposterous
Pole fall upon her:
" That for her honour! "
Let not a thought now
Of comfort escape us:
Think what in boisterous,
Blowing Jack Falstaff,
Shakespeare made Love look.
Think how that cheerful
Chiel Hippocleides
Would this my fearful
Passion disparage;
Dancing incessantly,
Dancing indecently,

Once did I loue and yet I liue,
Though loue & truth be now forgotten.
Then did I ioy nowe doe I grieue,
That holy vows must needs be broken.

Hers be the blame that caus'd it so,
Mine be the griefe though it be little,
Shee shall haue shame I cause to know:
What tis to loue a dame so fickle.

Loue her that list I am content,
For that Camelion like shee changeth,
Yeelding such mistes as may preuent:
My sight to view her when she rangeth.

Let him not vaunt that gaines my losse,

An Answere to the first Staffe, that Loue is unlike in Beggers and in Kings.

Compare the Bramble with the Cedar tree,
The Pismyres anger with the Lyons rage:
What is the Buzzing flie where Eagles bee?
A drop the sparke, no seas can Aetna swage.
Small is the heat in Beggers brests that springs,
But flaming fire consumes the hearts of Kings.

Who shrouds himself where slender hairs cast shade:
But mighty Oakes may scorne the Summer Sun:
Smal cure wil serue, wher Bees the woud haue made

The wind stood up and gave a shout;
He whistled on his fingers, and
Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand,
And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,
And so he will, and so he will.