|
DO you not feel the white glow in your breast, my bird?
That is the flame of love I send to you from afar:
Not a wafted kiss, hardly a whispered word,
But love itself that flies as a white-winged star.
Let it dwell there, let it rest there, at home in your heart:
Wafted on winds of gold, it is Love itself, the Dove.
Not the god whose arrows wounded with bitter smart,
Nor the purple-fiery birds of death and love.
Do not ask for the hands of love or love’s soft eyes:
They give less than love who give all, giving what wanes.
I give you the star-fire, the heart-way to Paradise,
With no death after, no arrow with stinging pains.
|
