You quiet
the storm within
my fearful, restless,
shattered soul

You've awakened
emotions I thought to be
dead and buried long ago
you gave them life

You are my shelter
in place of a dwelling
It is you who are my shelter
offering me protection

Love, Life, Hope
You have given me
Such wondrous gifts
You are a Goddess

I love you
My Inspiration
My Love, My Life
My Everything

SHE has tender eyes that tell
All her prim, set lips suppress—
Daring thoughts that ever dwell
Prisoned in her bashfulness;
Hints of sudden tenderness
That within her breast rebel.
Till her bosom's fall and swell
Tell her meaning all too well,
To her heart's demure distress.
She has soft, smooth cheeks that flame
As she nestles close, so close,
With the new half-joy, half-shame,
That within her bosom glows,
And each fevered feature shows.
Her hot pulses beat acclaim

A bright red lotus has bloomed today
To passers-by, what a fragrant Entree!
The wind, the bees, or the gentle spray:
Who needs an invitation to a party, eh?

The water trembled gleefully,
Tickled by the golden rays.
In how many ways do I love thee?

The bee's busy counting the ways ...
The lotus blushed;
And turned scarlet in face:
Look! His chariot of seven horses
Race through the eastern skyways ...

In every one of his million hands
He carries a tangled web of love.
The lotus was charmed. The buzzing of the bees

My lord, embrace me deeply, and soothe my heart.
Take me in your fond embrace I’ll offer you my body, young and tender.
Come and make love to me, my love, I’ll clasp you firmly.
My lord, embrace me deeply, and soothe my heart.

The bliss not found in the heaven or Vaikunth is in his embrace,
In going to meet Narsinh’s Lord in forest!
My lord, embrace me deeply, and soothe my heart.

A tearful tincture washes
Cabbage-green skies;
Beneath the dribbling bushes
Your raincoats lie;

Pale white in private moonlight,
Like round-eyed sores,
Flap your scabby kneecaps apart,
My ugly whores!

We loved each other in those days,
Ugly blue whore!
We ate boiled eggs
And weed.

One night you made me a poet,
Ugly blond whore.
Get between my legs,
I'll whip you.

I puked up your greasy hair,
Ugly black whore;
You tried to unstring
My guitar.

Blah! Some of my dried-up spit,

My light thou art, without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darkened with eternal night;
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
I
Thou art my way, I wander if thou fly;
Thou art my light, if hid, how blind am I!
Thou art my life, if thou withdraw'st I die.
III
Thou art my life; if thou but turn away,
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way;
Without thee, Love, I travel not, but stray.

My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee tonight.
This said—he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand. . . a simple thing,
Yes I wept for it—this . . . the paper's light. . .
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

Beside the saffron of a curtain, lit
With broidered flowers, below a golden fringe
That on her silver shoulder made a glow,
Like the sun kissing lilies in the dawn;
She sat--my Irish love--slim, light and tall.
Between his mighty paws her stag-hound held,
(Love-jealous he) the foam of her pale robes,
Rare laces of her land, and his red eyes,
Half lov'd me, grown familiar at her side,
Half pierc'd me, doubting my soul's right to stand
His lady's wooer in the courts of Love.
Above her, knitted silver, fell a web

Air -- "The Rain upon the Roof"

I
When I was a little infant,
And I lay in mother's arms,
Then I felt the gentle pressure
Of a loving mother's arms.
"Go to sleep my little baby,
Go to sleep," mamma would say;
"Oh, will not my little lady
Go to sleep for ma to-day."
II
Oh! my parents loved me dearly,
For I was their eldest born,
And they always called me Julia
In a mild and loving form.
My parents will not forget me,
Though I married and left their home,
For they can remember clearly

Not where the musk of happiness blows,
Not where darkness and fears never tread;
Not in the homes of perpetual smiles,
Nor in the heaven of a land of prosperity
Would I be born
If I must put on mortal garb once more.

Dread famine may prowl and tear my flesh,
Yet would I love to be again
In my Hindustan.
A million thieves of disease
May try to steal the body’s fleeting health;
And clouds of fate
May shower scalding drops of searing sorrow –
Yet would I there, in India,
Love to reappear!