I DARE to love you in the face of death:
Not death that's near at hand, but sure to come
Some day, somewhere, when drawing further breath
Refuses issue, as the lips go dumb.

We take our heaven in the moment's touch;
Our hands are lifted to protest the Fate
That waits all lovers, be they small or much;
The dust that chokes delirium, soon or late.

With such dark certainty to block our bliss,
Nathless, the central fire that floods the soul,
Shines but the brighter, and our every kiss
Trembles with rapture that defies the goal.

And thus it is with all that made life fair,
Gone with the freshness that it used to wear.
'Tis sad to mark the ravage that the heart
Makes of itself; how one by one depart
The colours that made hope. We seek, we find;
And find, too, charm has, with the change, declined.
Many things have I loved, that now to me
Are as a marvel how they loved could be;
Yet, on we go, desiring to the last
Illusions vain, as any in the past.

O may I dare I breath a word
That thy young heart hath never heard
From me—& yet thy timid eye
Turns on me tenderly & shy
A look that often bids me move
My plea & intercede for love.

I wandered far from my mother's tent;
Alone through the shade of the woods I went:
Where leaves grew greenest, where trees were high,
We met in the shadow, my love and I.
So kindly and fondly he gazed at me—
But he did not know I was Rommani.

He led me out where the sun shone down,
He looked at my face that was Gipsy-brown;
He looked in my eyes, and he took my hand;
He said, “You come from a distant land—
From a warmer country across the sea?”
I never told I was Rommani.

“Come, love!” he said. When I heard him call,

O! And I forsooth in love!
I, that have been love's whip;
A very beadle to a humorous sigh;
A critic, nay, a night-watch constable,
A domineering pedant o'er the boy,
Than whom no mortal so magnificent!
This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy,
This signor junior, giant-dwarf, dan Cupid;
Regent of love rhymes, lord of folded arms,
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,
Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
Sole imperator and great general
Of trotting paritors: O my little heart!

It's not for nothing that I love you:
It's that others love my ruddy cheeks only—you love even my white hair.

It's not for nothing that I long for you:
It's that others love my smile only—you love even my tears.

It's not for nothing that I wait for you:
It's that others love only my health—you love even my death.

Thou art not near me, but I see Thine eyes,
Shine through the gloom like stars in winter skies—
Pointing the way my longing steps would go,
To come to Thee because I love Thee so.

Thou art not near me, but I feel Thine arm,
Soft folded round me, shielding me from harm,
Guiding me on as in the days of old—
Sometimes life seems so dark, so dreary and so cold.

Thou art not near me, but I hear Thee speak,
Sweet as the breath of June upon my cheek,
And as Thou speakest I forget my fears,
And all the darkness, and my lonely tears.

Natcha, offering love,
For ten shillings offering love.
Offering: A night with me, honey.
A long, sweet night with me.
Come, drink palm wine.
Come, drink kisses.
A long, dream night with me.

Father John's bread was made of rye,
Felicite's bread was white;
Father John loved the sun noon-high,
Felicite, the moon at night.

Father John drank wine with his bread;
Felicite drank sweet milk;
Father John loved flowers, pungent and red;
Felicite, lilies soft as silk.

Father John's soul was made of bronze,
That God's salt was corroding;
Felicite's soul was a wind that runs
With a blue flame of foreboding.

Between these two was the shadow of a dome
That cut their lives in twain;
But Dionysus led them home
In a chariot of pain.

Fair face the Greeks had worshipped, have you come
With me to make your home?
You look at me with those deep, haunting eyes,
And all my life replies.

The silence thrills with vague, bewitching tone;
I am no more alone:
I who have sat upon the shore of Time,
Coaxing my lute to rhyme,

Feel in my heart, at impulse of your will,
Youth's eager music thrill;
And since the years have left me not so old,
Now their long tale is told,

But I can love the lovely, and be glad,
I hide the cypress wreath I had
For garland, and adorn me with the rose