lidsaLove’s Comparings
Carnations and lilies are hueless
When set by the face of my fair,
And fine-woven gold is but worthless
If weighted with the wealth of her hair;
Through arches of coral passes
Her laughter that banisheth care,
And flowers spring fresh ’mongst the grasses
Wherever her feet may fare.
—translated from the French by Curtis Hidden Page
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
from The New Life
So gentle and so gracious doth appear
My lady when she giveth her salute,
That every tongue becometh, trembling, mute;
Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare.
Although she hears her praises, she doth go
Benignly vested with humility;
And like a thing come down, she seems to be,
From heaven to earth, a miracle to show.
So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh,
She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes.
Which none can understand who doth not prove.
And from her countenance there seems to move
A spirit sweet and in Love’s every guise,
Who to the soul, in going, sayeth: Sigh!
—translated from the Italian by Charles Eliot Norton
Sunrise
The East grew white—fast flew the shallop;
The joyous sails were full distended;
And like a heaven beneath us stretching,
The sea with misty light was blended.
The East grew red—the maiden worshipt,
Her veil from off her locks untying.
Heaven seemed to glow upon her features,
As on her lips the prayer was sighing.
The East grew fire—in adoration
She knelt, her beauteous head inclining.
And on her young cheeks, fresh and blooming,
The tear-drops stood like jewels shining.
—translated from the Russian by Nathan Haskell Dole
from The Díwán
O Beauty worshipped ever
With what sweet pain and joy,
Hid from the world’s endeavour,
But seen by spirit’s eye!
Alike in mosque and tavern
Thou art my only thought;
The hermit in his cavern,
He seeks what I have sought.
Belov’d, unveil the splendour
Of all the skies and spheres—
Let thy moon-face so tender
Swim through my starry tears!
—translated from the Persian by Reynold A. Nicholson
Devoted Love
Chinese parasol trees become ripe and old together, side by side;
Mandarin ducks mold and die in duo, two by two;
Chaste and pure tender wife consumes and offers her life,
and gives her all to her husband, until they die;
A house and life been built and shed as such,
would not be fallen, though be hit by mighty waves;
In the heart of hers, it is a spirit, like pure water in eternal well.
—translated from the Chinese by Ninaz Shadman
lidsaLyric
Thine eyes are blue lotus flowers; thy teeth, white jasmine; thy face is like a lotus flower. So thy body must be made of the leaves of most delicate flowers: how comes it then that god hath given thee a heart of stone?
My love is a hunter, who comes proudly hither. Her eyebrows are the huntsman’s bended bow; her glances are the huntsman’s piercing darts. They surely and swiftly smite my heart, which is the wounded gazelle.
—translated from the Sanskrit by Peter van Bohlen
I Love My Jean
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie Lassie lives,
The Lassie I lo’e best.
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And mony a hill’s between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds
I hear her charm the air;
There’s not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me o’ my Jean.
In Praise of Love
Give me a writing board of Indian wood,
ink and a precious pen,
let me praise love for you.
It has entered my heart
forsooth, oh pupil of my eye,
you are like cool antimony.
I will care for you, come to me,
like my eldest child,
your love is not half as strong as mine.
Let me praise love for you
let me tell you what I feel,
so that you can look into my heart.
My heart is full of love,
if it had a lid,
I would open it for you.
For you I would open it,
so that you would know my love,
it is bursting my inmost being.
It is splitting my inside,
and yet I feel no pain,
so much do I love you.
Joy is the fruit of love,
when my purpose
[to make you love me]
is accomplished
I will give you a present for life.
I will not leave you all my life,
until death may follow,
may we live in mutual affection.
—translated from the Swahili by Jan Knappert
Alas Madam for Stealing of a Kiss
Alas! madam, for stealing of a kiss
Have I so much your mind then offended?
Have I then done so grievously amiss,
That by no means it may be amended?
Then revenge you, and the next way is this:
Another kiss shall have my life ended.
For to my mouth the first my heart did suck,
The next shall clean out of my breast it pluck.
In the Spring a Young Man’s Fancy
Now the white iris blossoms, and the rain-loving narcissus,
And now again the lily, the mountain-roaming, blows.
Now too, the flower of lovers, the crown of all the springtime,
Zenophila the winsome, doth blossom with the rose.
O meadows, wherefore vainly in your radiant garlands laugh ye?
Since fairer is the maiden than any flower that grows!
—translated from the Greek by Alma Strettell
from The Gardener
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep.
I fear lest I lose you when I’m sleeping.
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I start up and stretch my hands to touch you. I ask myself, ‘Is it a dream?’
Could I but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them fast to my breast!
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
—translated from the Bengali by the author
To Anthea, who may command him Anything
Bid me to live, and I will live
Thy Protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.
A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free
As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I’ll give to thee.
Bid that heart stay, and it will stay
To honour thy decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
And’t shall do so for thee.
Bid me to weep, and I will weep
While I have eyes to see:
And, having none, yet I will keep
A heart to weep for thee.
Bid me despair, and I’ll despair
Under that cypress-tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare
E’en death to die for thee.
Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
The very eyes of me:
And hast command of every part
To live and die for thee.
Husband and Wife
Wife
While other women’s husbands ride
Along the road in proud array,
My husband up the rough hillside
On foot must wend his weary way.
The grievous sight with bitter pain
My bosom fills, and many a tear
Steals down my cheek, and I would fain
Do aught to help my husband dear.
Come! take the mirror and the veil,
My mother’s parting gifts to me;
In barter they must sure avail
To buy a horse to carry thee!
Husband
An I should purchase me a horse,
Must not my wife still sadly walk?
No, no! though stony is our course,
We’ll trudge along and sweetly talk.
—translated from the Japanese by Basil Hall Chamberlain
My Sweetheart’s Dainty Lips …
My sweetheart’s dainty lips are red,
With ruby’s crimson overspread;
Her teeth are like a string of pearls;
Down her neck her clustering curls
In ebony hue vie with the night,
And over her features dances light.
The twinkling stars enthroned above
Are sisters to my dearest love.
We men should count it joy complete
To lay our service at her feet.
But oh what rapture is her kiss!
A forecast ’tis of heavenly bliss!
—translated from the Hebrew by Emma Lazarus
Sonnet LXIX 58
Loose to the breeze her golden tresses flow’d
Wildly in thousand mazy ringlets blown,
And from her eyes unconquer’d glances shone,
Those glances now so sparingly bestow’d.
And true or false, meseem’d some signs she show d’
As o’er her cheek soft pity’s hue was thrown.
I, whose whole breast with love’s soft food was sown,
What wonder if at once my bosom glow’d?
Graceful she mov’d, with more than mortal mien,
In form an angel: and her accents won
Upon the ear with more than human sound.
A spirit heav’nly pure, a living sun,
Was what I saw; and if no more ’twere seen,
T’ unbend the bow will never heal the wound.
—from the Italian, translator unknown
The Beloved
Diko,
of light skin, of smooth hair and long;
her smell is sweet and gentle
she never stinks of fish
she never breathes sweat
like gatherers of dry wood.
she has no bald patch on her head
like those who carry heavy loads.
Her teeth are white
her eyes are like
those of a new born fawn
that delights in the milk
that flows for the first time
from the antelope’s udder.
Neither her heel nor her palm
are rough; but sweet to touch
like liver; or better still
the fluffy down of kapok.
—translated from the Fulani by Ulli Beier
Thinking of Her
Oh, the sun of the East!
That beautiful young lady is in my chamber,
oh, she is treading the path of my footsteps,
approaching to my chamber, she is;
Oh, the moon of the East!
That pretty young lady is at the inner door of my room,
oh, she is following my footsteps,
and getting nearer, she walks away in haste.
She is the sun and the moon, rising of the East, as bright as is;
her thoughts are always, in here with me, during the day and at eventide.
—translated from the Chinese by Ninaz Shadman
A Devout Lover
I have a mistress, for perfections rare
In every eye, but in my thoughts most fair.
Like tapers on the altar shine her eyes;
Her breath is the perfume of sacrifice;
And wheresoe’er my fancy would begin,
Still her perfection lets religion in.
We sit and talk, and kiss away the hours
As chastely as the morning dews kiss flowers:
I touch her, like my beads, with devout care,
And come unto my courtship as my prayer.
from The Song of Songs
Ah, you are fair, my darling,
Ah, you are fair.
Your eyes are like doves
Behind your veil.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
Streaming down Mount Gilead.
Your teeth are like a flock of ewes
Climbing up from the washing pool;
All of them bear twins,
And not one loses her young.
Your lips are like a crimson thread,
Your mouth is lovely.
Your brow behind your veil
[Gleams] like a pomegranate split open.
Your neck is like the Tower of David,
Built to hold weapons,
Hung with a thousand shields—
All the quivers of warriors.
Your breasts are like two fawns,
Twins of a gazelle,
Browsing among the lilies.
When the day blows gently
And the shadows flee,
I will betake me to the mount of myrrh,
To the hill of frankincense.
Every part of you is fair, my darling,
There is no blemish in you
From Lebanon come with me;
From Lebanon, my bride, with me!
Trip down from Amana’s peak,
From the peak of Senir and Hermon,
From the dens of lions,
From the hills of leopards.
You have captured my heart,
My own, my bride,
You have captured my heart
With one [glance] of your eyes,
With one coil of your necklace.
How sweet is your love,
My own, my bride!
How much more delightful your love than wine,
Your ointments more fragrant
Than any spice!
Sweetness drops
From your lips, O bride;
Honey and milk
Are under your tongue;
And the scent of your robes
Is like the scent of Lebanon.
A garden locked
Is my own, my bride,
A fountain locked,
A sealed-up spring.
Your limbs are an orchard of pomegranates
And of all luscious fruits,
Of henna and of nard—
Nard and saffron,
Fragrant reed and cinnamon,
With all aromatic woods,
Myrrh and aloes—
All the choice perfumes.
[You are] a garden spring,
A rill of Lebanon.
Awake, O north wind,
Come, O south wind!
Blow upon my garden,
That its perfume may spread.
Let my beloved come to his garden
And enjoy its luscious fruits!
—translated from the Hebrew by the Jewish Publication Society
To His Love
Loved beauty, who afar,
Or hiding thy sweet face,
Inspirest me with amorous delight,
Unless in slumberous night,
A sacred shade my dreamy visions trace
Or when the day doth grace
Our verdant meads and fair is Nature’s smile:
The age, devoid of guile,
Perchance thou blessedst, which we golden style,
And now amid the race
Of men thou fliest, light as shadows are,
Ethereal soul? Or did beguiling Fate
Bid thee, veiled from our eyes, the future times await?
To gaze on thee alive
The hope henceforth is flown,
Unless that time when naked and alone
Upon new paths unto a dwelling strange
My spirit shall proceed. When dawn did rive
The early clouds of my tempestuous day,
Methought thou wouldst upon earth’s barren soil
Be the companion of mine arduous range.
But there is nought we on our globe survey
Resembling thee; and if with careful toil
We could discover any like to thee,
She would less beauteous be,
Though much of thine in face, in limb, and voice we’d see.
That Fate hath given to our years below,
If son of man thy beauty did adore,
Even such as I conceive it in my mind,
He would existence, so unblessed before,
Sweet and delightful find;
And clearly doth to me my spirit tell
That I to praise and glory would aspire,
As in mine early years, for love of thee.
But Heaven hath not deemed well
To grant a solace to our misery;
And linked to thee, existence would acquire
Such beauty as on high doth bless the heavenly choir.
Amid the shady vale
Where sounds the rustic song
Of the laborious tiller of the soil,
Where seated I bewail
The youthful error that was with me long,
But now doth far recoil;
And on the hills where I, remembering, weep
The lost desires and the departed hope
Of my sad days, the thought of thee doth keep
My heart from death, and gives life further scope.
Could I in this dark age and evil air,
Preserve thine image in my soul most deep,
’Twere joy enough, for truth can never be our share.
Thou art, whom ne’er with mortal, fragile frame
Eternal Wisdom suffers to be fraught,
Or to become the prey
Of all the sorrows of death-bringing life;
Or if another globe,
Amid the innumerable worlds that flame
On high when Night displays her dusky robe,
Thy beauty doth convey;
Or star, near neighbour of the sun, doth leave
Its light on thee while gentler breezes play:
From where the days are short and dark with strife,
This hymn of an unknown adorer, oh receive!
—translated from the Italian by Francis Henry Cliffe
One Heart Rejoined
The flame of love is kindled
Within me—how shall I contain it?
It is destroying me
For it waits in ambush close by.
It attacks me like the Sabeans
And burns with fierce anger
As it pierces my heart.
My tears that flow by day
Reveal my inmost secrets
What will ye say to my beloved?
‘Tears do not prove me right.’
How else can I be justified?
In my name speak to him
The words I have uttered:
‘Do not be indifferent to me!’
Remove from my heart the injury
Made by the rupture of our love.
Comfort, comfort me,
For my insides are groaning,
Because of the pain that increases,
Even sleep is distant from me;
It eludes me and removes itself.
The hearts that were severed
Cried out to each other and embraced again.
They urged me as well
To hold him close,
This poem, my love, is witness
(Like the words of a maiden singing).
Respond to its lay of friendship
That two sections of one heart rejoined shall not again be sundered.
—translated from the Hebrew by Leon J. Weinberger