Chapter XLII

Thou art of all Man's Joys the Spring;
Life's honey'd Sweetness thou dost bring.
My gather'd Pearls, from Bosom full,
Before thy Feet my glad Hands fling.
The Souls love-moved, are circling on,
Like Streams to their great Ocean King.
Thou art the Sun of all Men's Thoughts;
Thy Kisses are the Flowers of Spring.
The Dawn is pale from yearning Love;
The Moon in Tears is sorrowing.
Thou art the Rose; and deep for thee,
In Sighs, the Nightingales still sing.
O can my Love me so despise,
That he my Heart with Pain can wring?
O Wine of Life, all fragrant, pour,
And soothe the Pain of Death's last Sting!

Mystic Love Dance