Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights A Gift of Love for the Beautiful |
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TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART. |
 | Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights |  |
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TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART.
“I have drunk Lethe?”
—John Webster, 1665.
—John Webster, 1665.
I will give you Bread of Angels, sweeter far than any honey—
Whiter far, in its clear sweetness, than the snow of Leda's love—
In the South-Land, far away, beneath the skies forever sunny,
It was dropt upon the golden flowers in dew-drops from above.
Then no heart can speak so sweetly as the heart that has been broken,
As the Swan will sing the sweetest on the day that it must die;
And no word can ever charm us like the words that we hear spoken
By our friend upon his deathbed, when he knows that Heaven is nigh.
Whiter far, in its clear sweetness, than the snow of Leda's love—
In the South-Land, far away, beneath the skies forever sunny,
It was dropt upon the golden flowers in dew-drops from above.
Then no heart can speak so sweetly as the heart that has been broken,
As the Swan will sing the sweetest on the day that it must die;
And no word can ever charm us like the words that we hear spoken
By our friend upon his deathbed, when he knows that Heaven is nigh.
Pure as drops of dew congealed to Pearls beneath the troubled Ocean,
That the Divers value most because found deepest in the Sea;
Are the words that now well up from out my heart's divine devotion,
And here sparkle in this Jewel set to shrine my love for thee.
Like the Mirror in the Minor of the City of the Sages,
Which betrayed the Grecian enemy afar off on the sea;
But, when broken, left them prostrate to their wantonness for Ages,—
So my heart will bow to Sorrow if once broken, love! by thee!
That the Divers value most because found deepest in the Sea;
Are the words that now well up from out my heart's divine devotion,
And here sparkle in this Jewel set to shrine my love for thee.
Like the Mirror in the Minor of the City of the Sages,
Which betrayed the Grecian enemy afar off on the sea;
But, when broken, left them prostrate to their wantonness for Ages,—
So my heart will bow to Sorrow if once broken, love! by thee!
If thou art the only Pharos that can light my soul, at even,
When my Bark of Life is wrecking on Time's Ocean tempest-tost,
By what Beacon shall my spirit reach the peaceful Port of Heaven,
From the Valley of Dark Shadows where so many men are lost?
Many Palm trees are at Elim—many brooks of running water—
For the feeding of the hungry—for the quenching of their thirst—
But the Fountain opened freely on Mount Zion for her Daughter
Is the sweetest ever tasted—for this latest one was first.
When my Bark of Life is wrecking on Time's Ocean tempest-tost,
By what Beacon shall my spirit reach the peaceful Port of Heaven,
From the Valley of Dark Shadows where so many men are lost?
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For the feeding of the hungry—for the quenching of their thirst—
But the Fountain opened freely on Mount Zion for her Daughter
Is the sweetest ever tasted—for this latest one was first.
Hear you not the cooing Turtles in the Willows giving warning
That the Golden Time for singing on the earth will soon arrive?
When the Morning shall be Evening, for the Evening shall be Morning—
And the soul, possessing Heaven, no more for Heaven on earth shall strive.
Like the Rose that gives out odor only when we come to trample
On its petals, from my bruised heart flows the incense of my song—
Like the golden clouds of fragrance from the Altar in the Temple—
For the soul will show the sweetest under deepest sense of wrong.
That the Golden Time for singing on the earth will soon arrive?
When the Morning shall be Evening, for the Evening shall be Morning—
And the soul, possessing Heaven, no more for Heaven on earth shall strive.
Like the Rose that gives out odor only when we come to trample
On its petals, from my bruised heart flows the incense of my song—
Like the golden clouds of fragrance from the Altar in the Temple—
For the soul will show the sweetest under deepest sense of wrong.
I am mourning for the downfall of my Daughter of sweet Zion!
For she would not hear my counsel—ah! her heart within was dead!
Like the Holy City Salem treated Judah's Lamb-like Lion,
Till the Crown, that God had crowned her with, was taken from her head!
I will give you Bread of Angels, sweeter far than any honey—
Whiter far, in its clear sweetness, than the snow of Leda's love—
In the South-Land, far away, beneath the skies forever sunny,
It was dropt upon the golden flowers in dew-drops from above.
For she would not hear my counsel—ah! her heart within was dead!
Like the Holy City Salem treated Judah's Lamb-like Lion,
Till the Crown, that God had crowned her with, was taken from her head!
I will give you Bread of Angels, sweeter far than any honey—
Whiter far, in its clear sweetness, than the snow of Leda's love—
In the South-Land, far away, beneath the skies forever sunny,
It was dropt upon the golden flowers in dew-drops from above.
| Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights | |