My Own is beautiful as floated perfume is
The other day she seemed an opening flower
My own is beautiful as Angel's flesh in springtime
The other evening all the sun was on my heart
Why pick at old wounds?
It was so long ago.
All is well finished that causes
Remembrances of spring.
So long as the child preferred to me such and such a
player of the flute or singer to the zither,
little I cared
that she loved such and such a player of the flute or
scratcher of the zither.
The three girls on the sea-shore
have seen the Virgin mother passing
along the grave colonnades
ah! whence came you Virgin mother
Forgive the transgressions of my flesh, love,
And my lying heart.
It's a cruel illusion, this love of ours
And ends, sad moment,
We known not when.
When the King came to his tower
the fair one came to him and said-O King
Neither the wives of thy viziers beneath thy gaze like opening buds
nor the far-exiled women weeping their barbarian woods
betray the unknown men who turn by turn untie my arms
You masks of the masquerade,
pass, you are not she,
for whom my being staggers drunkenly,
pass without me your parade.
Thy arms with bracelets I will deck,
and with a string of pearls thy neck,
and with my lips thy lips.
My fever-floods shall bear thy passion-ships,
and I will bid thy courage flare,
with all my soul in flame,
It is a pilgrim coming from the East.
There had been to seek a balmy flower
which planted, in the gardens of Engaddi
designed according to the loveliness
Of Abishag and of the robes her dowry,
Solomon, old Magician with smoked hands
by an eternal prayer to beauty sent.