The Match-maker
Many are loved, but few indeed adored
With the devotion paid to thee, O Lord.
She bids me steal the tassel of thy sword,
Thinking of love.
That she may fasten it above her bed,
Thus will some subtle sense of thee be shed,
When the wind blows across its gold and red.
Fancy of love!
Further, she bade me say these words to thee;
"Downcast and long although my lashes be,
Thine eyes have burnt into the heart of me."
Language of love!
"Mimosa wood, though on the threshold laid
And subject unto passing footsteps made,
Can still send forth fresh shootlets, unafraid."
Fable of love?
"Such is the tree's innate vitality.
And if my heart were trampled down by thee,
Still would new shoots of love arise from me!"
Fervour of love!
