A white, high-battlemented castle,
Set in the heart and centre of a rainbow,
With rain-weighed trees nodding around it,
And a great sward flowing up and down;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

A summer pool by silence haunted,
Deep in the greenness lit by water-lilies,
Where there are kingfishers, and the unreaped grasses
Whisper soft secrets to the listless winds;
Give you good dreams, love,
As little children dream.

And night, and the stars, and naught beside,
But in your heart of hearts a brimming wonder,

Gods, get me out of it!
Spirits of Laughter
Come to my aid now
And exorcise it!
O you, Priapus,
Stand till you're skyward,
Stand till you're all staff
And cannot rise it!
Let your preposterous
Pole fall upon her:
" That for her honour! "
Let not a thought now
Of comfort escape us:
Think what in boisterous,
Blowing Jack Falstaff,
Shakespeare made Love look.
Think how that cheerful
Chiel Hippocleides
Would this my fearful
Passion disparage;
Dancing incessantly,
Dancing indecently,

Once did I loue and yet I liue,
Though loue & truth be now forgotten.
Then did I ioy nowe doe I grieue,
That holy vows must needs be broken.

Hers be the blame that caus'd it so,
Mine be the griefe though it be little,
Shee shall haue shame I cause to know:
What tis to loue a dame so fickle.

Loue her that list I am content,
For that Camelion like shee changeth,
Yeelding such mistes as may preuent:
My sight to view her when she rangeth.

Let him not vaunt that gaines my losse,

An Answere to the first Staffe, that Loue is unlike in Beggers and in Kings.

Compare the Bramble with the Cedar tree,
The Pismyres anger with the Lyons rage:
What is the Buzzing flie where Eagles bee?
A drop the sparke, no seas can Aetna swage.
Small is the heat in Beggers brests that springs,
But flaming fire consumes the hearts of Kings.

Who shrouds himself where slender hairs cast shade:
But mighty Oakes may scorne the Summer Sun:
Smal cure wil serue, wher Bees the woud haue made

The wind stood up and gave a shout;
He whistled on his fingers, and
Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand,
And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,
And so he will, and so he will.

I made my love a little secret house,
Of emerald moss and silver birchen boughs,
Wherein to while away the sunny hours;
And in the roof I set a bubble, bright
With rainbow colours of the moon, and light,
Soft, golden radiance of the dew-drenched flowers.

I made my thoughts her silent servitors,
Clad them in soft, sad, silvery gossamers,
Weft in the twilight by a dryad sighing
For a forsaken love. I draped the walls
With blue-grey curtains of the night that falls,
Star-sprinkled, when the autumn-time is dying.

Thy love has melted my body and it has become water. Any antimony that might have remained became the antimony of the bubble's eyes.
The bud may open by the morning breeze which blows in the garden, but the key to the lock of my heart is the smile of my beloved.

Alam speaks:

The bright eyes of a beautiful woman, awake all night long, are full of love.
It seems, as one looks at her, that youth is flowing from her.
Those eyes are moving to and fro, intoxicated with love.
They are cast down, being heavy with sleep, and sometimes they are wide open.
O Alam, some new beauty is seen in these eyes.
They appear like a bee hovering over a lotus flower.

Shekh Rangrezin replies:

Those eyes that are like a bee want to fly away, when they behold the face of the moon.

Soft he sleeps, where floweth the winding river:
Winds blow light; they dare not awake the sleeper, —
One so young and lovely, so full of beauty,
Grandeur, and glory.

Soft he sleeps, a child on his cross reposing, —
Smiles in peace, unknowing of future sorrows;
Bright and pure, as spirit of life, — as rose-bud,
Fresh in his beauty.

Yet that look reveals, in its pensive sweetness,
Deep and holy love, that will after lead him
Forth to heal and save, and to higher being
Kindly allure us.

I asked sweet love,
Where we should meet,
And greet,
Secure from slips?
On earth beneath, in heaven above?
He answer'd quick with quivering wings,
That perfumed zephyrs stirr'd around,
All crisp with spray from springs
Of tears,
Deep laid in rapture's heart profound,
Long gathered in immemorial years: —
" We'll meet, sir, on your lady's lips. "