 | Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights |  |
TO THE ONLY ONE.
“I crown thee, love!
I crown thee queen of me?”
—Festus.
I crown thee queen of me?”
—Festus.
Swift as the fond mate to his Dove,
My soul now flies to thee,
To place this new-born Rose of Love,
Pulled from Affection's Paphian Grove—
Upon thy breast by me.
My soul now flies to thee,
To place this new-born Rose of Love,
Pulled from Affection's Paphian Grove—
Upon thy breast by me.
Thy voice is sweeter far to me
Than either Harp or Lute;
For when those strings are touched by thee—
Thy lips are moved to melody—
Each other voice is mute.
Than either Harp or Lute;
For when those strings are touched by thee—
Thy lips are moved to melody—
Each other voice is mute.
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I have outwatched the sleepless stars
While gazing upon thee;
And thou, my Star! wert unawares,
Amid my many patient cares,
Of being watched by me.
While gazing upon thee;
And thou, my Star! wert unawares,
Amid my many patient cares,
Of being watched by me.
The Persian worships not the Sun,
Because God dwells in light,
More true than I have ever done
Thy beauty, my Celestial One!
That cheers me day and night.
Because God dwells in light,
More true than I have ever done
Thy beauty, my Celestial One!
That cheers me day and night.
The Cave-nursed Plato felt Love's fire
Burn in his heart like mine;
But not more pure was his desire,
When he to Heaven did first aspire,
Than this fond soul for thine.
Burn in his heart like mine;
But not more pure was his desire,
When he to Heaven did first aspire,
Than this fond soul for thine.
For that high burning love he felt,
No name was ever given;
And no less object ever dwelt
Within my soul to make it melt
With Passion's fires—than Heaven.
No name was ever given;
And no less object ever dwelt
Within my soul to make it melt
With Passion's fires—than Heaven.
| Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights | |