Chapter 6

I say, She is fair, too coldly strange for speech; A crown of memories, her calm brow above, Shines; and her heart is like a bruised red peach, Ripe as her body for intelligent love.

Art thou late fruit of spicy savor and scent? A funeral vase awaiting tearful showers? An Eastern odor, waste and oasis blent? A silken cushion or a bank of flowers?

I know there are eyes of melancholy sheen To which no passionate secrets e'er were given; Shrines where no god or saint has ever been, As deep and empty as the vault of Heaven.

But what care I if this be all pretense? 'T will serve a heart that seeks for truth no more, All one thy folly or indifference,-- Hail, lovely mask, thy beauty I adore!

Amor Mysticus.

From the Spanish of Sor Marcela de Carpio.

Let them say to my Lover That here I lie! The thing of His pleasure, His slave am I.

Say that I seek Him Only for love, And welcome are tortures My passion to prove.

Love giving gifts Is suspicious and cold; I have all, my Belovèd, When Thee I hold.

Hope and devotion The good may gain; I am but worthy Of passion and pain.

So noble a Lord None serves in vain, For the pay of my love Is my love's sweet pain.

I love Thee, to love Thee,-- No more I desire; By faith is nourished My love's strong fire.

I kiss Thy hands When I feel their blows; In the place of caresses Thou givest me woes.

But in Thy chastising Is joy and peace. O Master and Love, Let Thy blows not cease.

Thy beauty, Belovèd, With scorn is rife, But I know that Thou lovest me Better than life.

And because Thou lovest me, Lover of mine, Death can but make me Utterly Thine.

I die with longing Thy face to see; Oh! sweet is the anguish Of death to me!