The Song of Songs I

   The song of cries, which is thine beast's.

     Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than what is of the flesh. Because of the holy of thy pearl origins thy name is as pearl dripping forth, therefore do the wicked love thee. Withdraw from thee, I will run after thee: the angel hath brought me into his feathers: I will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than what is of the flesh: the upright love thee.

     I am ill, but comely, O ye knights of God, as the marble of this castle, as the drapery of silk upon one's bed. Look not upon me, because I am ill, because the sun hath judged upon me: the village peoples were angry with me; they made me the keeper of the graveyards; but mine own graveyard have I not kept. Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy wings to rest at noon: for why should I be as one that turneth aside by the wings of thy bod? If thou know not, O thou fairest among holy vows, go thy away forth by the footsteps of the resentment, and feed thy anger with scars on mine skin.

     I have compared thee, O my love, to a kitten's first sip of warm milk. Thy cheeks are sharpened with pearls imbedded, thy neck with chains of silver. We will make thee borders of silver with tried with spilt crimson. While the angel sitteth at mine table, my desperation sendeth forth the smell thereof. A bundle of roses to hide my rot is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my chest. Thy holyness is unto me as a dagger of wood in the graveyards of worn warriors. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast hawks' eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is bleeding. The columns of my castle are stone, and my floors of marble.

     I am the white rose of impurity, and the roots of the weed. As weed among flowers, so is my love among others. As the rotting fir among the trees of fruit, so is my monster among his radiance. I sat down under his shadow with great delight, and his cold shadow was warmth and protection. His fruit bore me fulfillment. He brought me to the gates, and his wing over me was love. Stay me with hope, comfort me with shadows: for I am sick of love. 

      His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me. I charge you,  O ye God of opalescent knights, by the trapped roes, by the scarred hide I wear, that ye stir not up, nor awake my love, till he reflects his own mind. The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh swooping among raindrops, skipping the clouds. My beloved is like a saint or a wound bull: behold, he standeth behind my wall, he looketh forth to the balcony, shewing himself through the curtains. 

     My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away with me. For, lo, the pain is past, the rain is cleansing and pure. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing birds is come, and the voice of the holy is heard in your lands; The pomegranate putteth forth her juice that we may drink of, and the vines of the resilient underbush give a good foundation. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away with me. 

     O my hawk, that art in the clefts of the carved rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let thee see my rot, let thee hear my unfairness, and thy garden is plentiful. Take us the silk, the little threads, that spoil the dankness: for our gardens bear a more beautiful fruit. My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the weeds. Until the dawn break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a saint or wound bull upon the halls of mine mind.