And yet I know that sorry things befal
Sometimes, withal,
For once it was my grievous task to mourn
A turtle-dove sore wounded by a thorn."
"O sweetest Dove,
May grief be far from thee,
Who lovest sorrow when thou lovest me;
But changeful love
May yet be fixed by grief no more to rove,
And we by woe be bound in constancy.
O Roses, bear me witness of my truth,
Death with my love were life a thousand-fold,
Dear death were fairer than immortal youth
Could it life's weal in friendly arms enfold.
Dark Angel of the River's brink, draw near,
In stable grasp this sovereign hour assure,
Cast icy glamour o'er my love's sweet cheer,
Forever then shall that dear love endure,
An end of sweets fair Chance may hold in store
Were death of all the changeful moods of time,
And boundless being of my love's sweet prime.
Ah, thorny Roses, prate ye still of ruth
And would me my brief hour of bliss deny?
And yet all happy things to love are sooth,
But I, ah me, this destiny so high
Weighs on my spirit like a drowsy spell,
I cannot joy like those, nor stay, I fail
Before the greatness of my high behest,
Ah, high is holiness, but love is rest,
Yes, love is rest, is rest; then blow, sweet gale
Of soft forgetfulness about me still,
And O, ye Roses, balmy breath exhale
And all my consciousness with slumber fill.
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