7
I climb the mossy bank of the glade:
My love awaiteth me in the shade.
She holdeth a book that she never heedeth:
In Goddës work her spirit readeth.
She is all to me, and I to her:
When we embrace, the stars confer.
O my love, from beyond the sky
I am calling thy heart, and who but I?
Fresh as love is the breeze of June,
In the dappled shade of the summer noon.
Heracleitus, spending his youth
In search of wisdom, had less of truth.
Flame of fire was the poet’s desire:
The thinker found that life was fire.
O my love! my song is done:
My kiss hath both their fires in one.