My Love

An hundred forms my love at times doth take,
And in an hundred shapes appears to me;

Sometime an isle around which billows break,
The seas- — my passions that encircle thee.

And then again, sweet love, thou art a shrine;

So that I think my love luxuriant falls,
Like leafy bowers, verdant and benign,
Around the church's consecrated walls.

Sometimes thou art a traveler, rich and great,
And, like a brigand, on thee breaks my love;

Again it meets -thee in a beggar's state

And, suppliant, asks thee for the alms thereof.
Or thou art as the high Carpathian hills,
And I the thunderous cloud that shakes thy heart;

Or thou the rosebush round whose fragrance thrills
The nightingale, of which I play the part.

Thus my love varies, but doth never cease;

It still remains imperishable and sure;
Its strength abides, but with a greater peace;

Oft calm, and yet with depths that will endure.