love poem

But is this love, that in my hollow breast
Gnaws like a silent poison, till I faint?
Is this the vision that the haggard saint
Fed with his vigils, till he found his rest?
Is this the hope that piloted thy quest,
Knight of the Grail, and kept thy heart from taint?
Is this the heaven, poets, that ye paint?
Oh, then, how like damnation to be blest!
This is not love: it is that worser thing —
Hunger for love, while love is yet to learn.
Thy peace is gone, my soul; thou long must yearn.
Long is thy winter's pilgrimage, till spring

'Tis love that moveth the celestial spheres
In endless yearning for the Changeless One,
And the stars sing together, as they run
To number the innumerable years.
'Tis love that lifteth through their dewy tears
The roses' beauty to the heedless sun,
And with no hope, nor any guerdon won,
Love leads me on, nor end of love appears.
For the same breath that did awake the flowers,
Making them happy with a joy unknown,
Kindled my light and fixed my spirit's goal;
And the same hand that reined the flying hours

JANUARY.

Rain — hail — sleet — snow! — But in my East
This is the time when palm-trees quicken
With flowers, wherefrom the Arabs' feast
Of amber dates will thenceforth thicken.

Palms, — he and she, — in sight they grow;
And o'er the desert-sands is wafted,
On light airs of the After-glow,
That golden dust whence fruit is grafted.

Ah, happy trees! who feel no frost

Why doth that foole unjustly love accuse,
Who through his owne feare did occasion lose?
To misse an offer'd happinesse must be,
Or want of love, or too much modesty:
Thy scorne Lysarda I have justly won ,
Who wanted light when I embrac'd the Sun.
O look into my heart, thou wilt see there,
'Twas admiration onely caus'd my feare:
Respect curb'd my affection; let me dye,
(Displeasing thee) by thy enflaming eye:
Such death will make thy cruelty confesse,
I never wanted love, though happinesse.

If the white dew must vanish,
let it vanish:
even if it stayed
no one would care
to make it a string of gems. The man thought her reply was callous, but his feelings for her only increased.

Patirruppattu 60

His armies love massacre,
he loves war,
yet gifts
flow from him ceaselessly.

Come, dear singers,
let's go and see him in Naravu

where, on trees
no ax can fell,
fruits ripen, unharmed
by swarms of bees,
egg-shaped, ready
for the weary traveler
in fields of steady, unfailing harvests;

Ainkurunuru 24

In his country,

spotted crabs
born in their mother's death
grow up with crocodiles
that devour their young.

Why is he here now?

And why does he
take those women,

a jangle of gold bangles
as they make love,

only to leave them?

Embracing this woman
who wants him as he wants her,

senses tuned all along
to the aphrodisiac
skill of his minstrel's lute,

he enjoys his love:
this man of soft meadows,
jasmine meadows.

His heart swells
as he looks at his love,
now his wife,
and at his little son
named for a famous father —
his smile toothless,
his feet unsteady,
as he rolls
his tiny chariots of war.

Saying to himself,
" The white wild jasmine is in flower,
the climbing jasmine is in bud,
the forest has taken on the beauty
of the rains,
and if my love sees it
she will grieve, "

our lover has come back,
not giving himself anymore
to tasks of war,

so that your troubled beauty