My soul goes out to meet her, and my heart
Flings wide the portals of its love, and yearns
To have her enter its serene retreat.
A poor stray lamb, not wand'ring from the fold,
But all unstudied in the worldling's art,
Turning life's mintage into seeming gold,
Wherewith to purchase love and love's returns;
Unknowing that love's waters, though so sweet,
Lead to some bitter Marah. So my soul
Goes out to meet her, and it clasps her home,
And seeks to bear her upward to the goal
At which the righteous enter. From the dome

Who said that I have stopped loving you?
Whatever I did yesterday,
I am doing today,
Or I will do tomorrow,
Has nothing to do to the way I feel about you…

Of course,
The world might be limited
Only to the five senses,
But let us go further…

Regardless of my situations,
You are and will always be
That fairy tale Princess of mine
I felt in love with…

Even though we have choose
Not to walk through
Life on the same path,
But you still my Princess…

I feel that I'm possess'd of nought,
Saving the free unfetterd thought
Which from my bosom seeks to flow,
And each propitious passing hour
That suffers me in all its power
A loving fate with truth to know.

Beneath the gold acacia buds
My gentle Nora sits and broods,
Far, far away in Boston woods
My gentle Nora!

I see the tear-drop in her e'e,
Her bosom's heaving tenderly;
I know—I know she thinks of me,
My Darling Nora!

And where am I? My love, whilst thou
Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough,
Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow,
I stand, my Nora!

Mid carcanet and coronet,
Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set—
Where England's chivalry are met,
Behold me, Nora!

In this strange scene of revelry,

My Loves' mosque, is an edifice of just two petals,
Love is the preist there,
Ye pearly one art the caller there,
Ye, who hath the Yousef's grace.

My lover asks me:
"What is the difference between me and the sky?"
The difference, my love,
Is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.


Translated by B. Frangieh And C. Brown


Submitted by Noele Aabye

My lovely pixie, my good companion,
You do not love me, bed-mate of mine,
Save as a child loves,
Careless of loving,
Rather preferring raspberry wine.
How can you help it? You were abandoned.
Your mother left you. Your father died.
All your young years of
Pain and desertion
Are not forgotten, here at my side.

My love, spurn not this Padmani,
now for another occasion is not meet.
My primal mate, my word I won't break.
How much shall I bear, ye pretender

My love, she's but a lassie yet,
My love, she's but a lassie yet!
We'll let her stand a year or twa,
She'll no be half sae saucy yet!

I rue the day I sought her, O!
I rue the day I sought her, O!
Wha gets her need na say he's woo'd,
But he may say he has bought her, O.

Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet,
Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet!
Gae seek for pleasure whare ye will,
But here I never miss'd it yet.

We're a'dry wi' drinkin o't,
We're a'dry wi' drinkin o't!

SHE casts a spell, oh, casts a spell!
Which haunts me more than I can tell.
Dearer, because she makes me ill
Than who would will to make me well.

She is my store! oh, she my store!
Whose grey eye wounded me so sore,
Who will not place in mine her palm,
Nor love, nor calm me any more.

She is my pet, oh, she my pet!
Whom I can never more forget;
Who would not lose by me one moan,
Nor stone upon my cairn would set.

She is my roon, oh, she my roon!
Who tells me nothing, leaves me soon;