Thy love’s as tender as the drooping rose that sadly says to earth:
“No more have I the strength to take what thou giv’st me;”
But unlike her, alas, thy love’s complaint of dearth:
“Thou hast no strength to give what I demand of thee.”
Thy love hath heard the many whispered promises of every soul;
His birth methinks is nigh coeval with the birth of time:
He lives in death throughout the ages, and his goal
Is hidden in the faded flowers from every clime.
His soul is deeper than the sea and deepest caverns in its bed;
’T is higher than the highest sky above our own;
’T is purer than the morning dew a-dripping from the salvias red;
’T is mightier than the four winds, blowing from every zone.
This love hath offered me the keys of all his halls and towers,
And to my heart with clinging kisses he appealed;
But, ah, forgive me God! must I the sweetest flowers
Refuse because they do not grow in Beauty’s field?