Her passions the shy violet
From Hafiz never hides;
Love-longings of the raptured bird
The bird to him confides.

Test of the poet is knowledge of love,
For Eros is older than Saturn or Jove;
Never was poet, of late or of yore,
Who was not tremulous with love-lore.

Love on his errand bound to go
Can swim the flood, and wade through snow,
Where way is none, 't will creep and wind
And eat through Alps its home to find.

Coral and clear emerald,
And amber from the sea,
Lilac-coloured amethyst,
Chalcedony;
The lovely Spirit of Air
Floats on a cloud and doth ride,
Clad in the beauties of earth
Like a bride.

So doth she haunt me; and words
Tell but a tithe of the tale.
Sings all the sweetness of Spring
Even in the nightingale?
Nay, but with echoes she cries
Of the valley of love;
Dews on the thorns at her feet,
And darkness above.

I loved the wild spots far from town
& mole hills laced with time
Where birds build free from idle clown
& blossoms live their time

When fair Amelia's artless smiles,
At first my youthful bosom fir'd;
I look'd and sigh'd from day to day,
But durst not say that I admir'd.

Yet what my tongue could not reveal,
True love's expressive looks betray'd,
Tir'd with restraint, at length I own'd
My passion to the lovely maid.

You should have told me this before,
'Tis now too late, she said, and sigh'd,
Last night arriv'd a lover gay,
My father means me for his bride.

When next my wand'ring heart was caught
By bright Eliza's sparkling eyes,

The distant hills are blue as lips of death;
Between myself and them the hot swamps steam
In fetid curls, which, in the twilight, seem
Like gathering phantoms waiting for my breath;

While in the August heat with chattering teeth
I sit, and icy limbs, and let the stream
Of recollection flow in a dull dream;
Or weave, with marish blooms, my own death-wreath.

O Love that hast undone me, and through whom
I waste in this Maremma: King of Sighs,
Behold thy handmaid in her heavy doom!

Send me thy brother Death who so oft flies

It is not four years ago,
I offered forty crowns
To lie with her a night or so:
She answer'd me in frowns.

Not two years since, she meeting me
Did whisper in my ear,
That she would at my service be,
If I contented were.

I told her I was cold as snow,
And had no great desire;
But should be well content to go
To twenty, but no higher.

Some three months since or thereabout,
She, that so coy had been,
Bethought herself and found me out,
And was content to sin.

I smil'd at that, and told her I

I was not useful? So
He says, nor young nor strong.
My master ought to know,
I've followed him so long.

For many and many a day
I followed well content,
Might I but go the way
That he, my master, went.

I listened for his foot,
I strove his thought to scan;
For I was but a brute,
And he I loved was man.

O'er all that he held dear,
A patient watch to keep,
With light, attentive ear
I listened in my sleep.

The stealthy foot withdrew,
The daring hand was stayed;
My growl the robber knew,

Late, I love but quietness:
Things of this world are no more my concern
Looking back, I've known no better plan
Than this: returning to the grove
Pine breezes: loosen my robe
Mountain moon beams: play my lute.
What, you ask, is Final Truth?
The fisherman's song, strikes deep into the bank.