Roses in bosom, wine in hand And she I love submiss is;
The Sultan of the world my slave On such a day as this is.

Bring ye no candles; for, to night, In this our congregation,
The moon of the Friend's cheek's at full And other light dismisses.

Wine in our order lawful is; But, in thy face's absence,
O cypress-statured rose, the cup Forbidden and amiss is.

No perfumes for our banquet mix; For, from thy tress, each moment,
Borne to the nostrils of our soul The scent of ambergris is.

Mine ear is all ta'en up with wail Of reed and clang of harpstrings;

O Slain for love of me, canst Thou be cold,
Be cold and far away in my distress:
Is Thy love also changed growing less and less
That carried me thro' all the days of old?—
O Slain for love of me, O Love untold,
See how I flag and fail thro' weariness:
I flag, while sleepless foes dog me and press
On me; behold O Lord, O Love behold.
I am sick for home, the home of love indeed;
I am sick for Love, that dearest name for Thee:
Thou Who hast bled, see how my heart doth bleed;
Open Thy bleeding Side and let me in;

In the still of the night,
As I gaze from my window
At the moon in its flight,
My thoughts all stray to you.
In the still of the night,
While the world is in slumber,
Oh, the times without number,
Darling, when I say to you,
“Do you love me as I love you?
Are you my life-to-be, my dream come true?”
Or will this dream of mine
Fade out of sight
Like the moon
Growing dim
On the rim
Of the hill
In the chill,
Still

Who wins his Love shall lose her,
—Who loses her shall gain,
For still the spirit wooes her,
—A soul without a stain;
And Memory still pursues her
—With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her,
—Who watches day by day
The dust of time that stains her,
—The griefs that leave her gray,
The flesh that yet enchains her
—Whose grace hath passed away!

Oh, happier he who gains not
—The Love some seem to gain:
The joy that custom stains not
—Shall still with him remain,
The loveliness that wanes not,
—The Love that ne'er can wane.

The lovely years went lightly by
As April flowers go,
And often you would laugh or cry
To see how I could grow.

The lonely years drift by in rain,
As leaves in Autumn do.
I long, when we shall meet again,
To be as tall as you.

Well , if the thing is over, better it is for me,
The lad was ever a rover, loving and laughing free,
Far too clever a lover not to be having still
A lass in the town and a lass by the road and a lass by the farther hill—
Love on the field and love on the path and love in the woody glen—
(Lad, will I never see you, never your face again?)

Ay, if the thing is ending now I'll be getting rest,
Saying my prayers and bending down to be stilled and blest,
Never the days are sending hope till my heart is sore

Fair love, o'er my heart let thy gentle hand pass.
Dost hear in that chamber the knocking, alas!
A carpenter cross-grained and spiteful dwells there,
Who's making for me a coffin so rare.

There's tapping and rapping by night and by day,
'Tis long since it drove all my slumber away.
Oh, good Master Carpenter, hammer amain,
That soon I may slumber right soundly again.

Over the rush of the brown reedy grasses,
Shadows are shimmering, shading along.
Down in the hush of the green marshy passes,
Echoes the trill of the troubadour's song—
“Sweetheart! Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
Come! Come! Come!”

Breezes have swooned with the pelf that they carried,
Sweeping the petals of orange a-bloom;
Beauty is bride, and her handmaids have tarried,
Scattering guerdons, for love is the groom.
“Sweetheart! Sweetheart! Sweetheart!
Come! Come! Come!”

Purple the haze, where the sun-light is drifting,

Lonely at night my watch I keep,
While all the world is hush'd in sleep.
Then tow'rd my home my thoughts will rove;
I think upon my distant love.

When to the wars I march'd away,
My hat she deck'd with ribbons gay;
She fondly press'd me to her heart,
And wept to think that we must part.

Truly she loves me, I am sure,
So ev'ry hardship I endure;
My heart beats warm, though cold's the night;
Her image makes the darkness bright.

Now by the twinkling taper's gleam,
Her bed she seeks, of me to dream,
But ere she sleeps she kneels to pray

A lovely woman rolls up
The delicate bamboo blind.
She sits deep within,
Twitching her moth eyebrows.
Who may it be
That grieves her heart?
On her face one sees
Only the wet traces of tears.