I

They say there's strength in love; this love of mine
I'd trade for hatred's weakness, gold for gilt,
That I might grasp the wounding dagger's hilt
And pull it from my breast, to plunge in thine.
For every hateful word I'd give one back,
And scorn your love, as you have scorned mine.
Upon your heart, my love, I'd nicely dine
If I but had the weakness that I lack.
Yet you disdain the strength of that command
Which holds me, raging, under its control.
You dance upon the wreckage of my soul,
And call it "cowardice" that stays my hand.
Rather, be glad I love you as I do;
It stands alone twixt certain death and you.


II

There is no love as perfect and as rare
As love of knowledge, so the sages say;
And priests are quick enough to say them nay,
and claim tis love of God that's past compare.
For artists, held within the Muse's thrall,
The love of beauty holds the highest throne.
To courtly lovers, love and love alone
is worthy of the highest love of all.
But none of these have ever snared my soul
as you have done. It grants me no respite,
this love which threatens to devour whole
my spirit and my mind--I cannot fight.
Tis plain to see: my love for him who stole
into my heart is greatest in its might.


III

Some fear the savage cold of winter's frost,
but in my heart her beauty sparked a flame
that put the warmest summer's day to shame.
When first her eyes met mine, my soul was lost.
I ache to feel her passionless embrace,
though every light caress is frozen fire;
In vain I battle gainst my heart's desire
and to her deadly features turn my face.
O, that her cold November gaze might breach
my breast, and quench with winter's ice-cold dart
the all-consuming passion in my heart
devouring all sense, all thought, all speech!
But numb I stand, awaiting final bliss:
the fatal benediction of her kiss.


IV

If I should chance to gaze upon your face
And look away, your image lingers still
To hover in my vision 'gainst my will
and leave me blind to see beyond a pace.
Thy touch, so warm, so painful in excess
that tears, against my will, fight to arise
and fill my throat, and overflow mine eyes--
I burn, exquisitely, from your caress.
Yet all of this together fades to naught
when placed beside the bright, white-hearted fire
that sears my heart, inflaming my desire,
illuminating every secret thought--
To love the sun is perilous and rare;
to be loved by her, joy beyond compare.

IX

Through fields of flowers, white and gold and red,
I've walked in dreams. I've slain the ancient Foe,
and witnessed ice trees blossoming in snow,
and shared the Sea-king's wisdom, and his bed.
Each night a world awaits behind my eyes,
so full of magic, wonder and delight
that this poor shadow-world is but a slight
comparison, a bleak and paltry prize.
Until your spirit came and touched my heart,
My dreams were all the magic I desired.
From grey "reality" I held apart,
And into realms of shifting mists retired.
But now, your love has broken Lethe's spell;
No more in dreams alone I choose to dwell.

XII

"Forever--" Ah! My hand upon your lips
attempts in vain to halt the deadly vow.
I beg you yet again to love me now,
and guard your tongue from such unwelcome slips.
They listen to such vows, you see--for they
delight in human suffering and woe,
and stir their fingers in this world below
To watch us run like ants, a child's prey.
So whisper if you must, and let your gaze
a thousand vows of love eternal give,
and hopefully the gods will let us live,
undisturbed, together all our days.
(And when we're old, we'll shout our joy and love
to all the spiteful pantheon above.)

XIII

You are a very angel in my eyes;
An angel with a sword of searing flame
that stands before the Eden I would claim
your visage stern, and pitying, and wise.
Do I love the garden, or the guard?
Both Hades and Elysium I desire,
the balm of one to sooth the other's fire--
and both at once I find in your regard.
Were you a budding lotus, furled and spare
Each razored petal would I gently part
Until I touched my tongue unto its heart
to taste your pulse, so bittersweet and rare.
Is it the vision that I love, or thee?
fulfillment, or a dream's eternity?



XIV

Your lips, my love, are honey-sweet on mine;
Your kisses of a vintage never known
Until I broached their seal with my own
To savour your intoxicating wine.
Your flesh, so smooth, is nectar to my touch.
How envious the Gods themselves must be
That such ambrosia could belong to me;
How awed am I, to be blessed with so much.
A feast this is, too sweet, too rich, too fine!
Your body has aroused my appetite,
And drives me to devour every bite;
I never thought such riches could be mine.
If Tant'lus ended his eternal fast,
He too would weep, to eat and drink at last.


XV

I am beloved in a thousand ways.
My favorite? I never can decide.
One hides her eyes to quench the fear inside;
Another melts me with her knowing gaze.
One's will burns with a phosphorescent flame.
Another's name is whispered as a prayer.
A third has captured autumn in her hair,
and drives me mad with rapture in her name.
One is inviolate, beyond all sin,
another wounded to her very core.
One lies beneath me, wanton, wanting more,
and holds the ocean's sweet-salt tang within.
Yet all these loves? Mere fractions of the whole
of what I love within my lover's soul.