Thou knowest, love, I know that thou dost know That I am here more near to thee to be, And knowest that I know thou knowest me: What means it then that we are sundered so? If they are true, these hopes that from thee flow, If it is real, this sweet expectancy, Break down the wall that stands 'twixt me and thee; For pain in prison pent hath double woe. Because in thee I love, O my loved lord, What thou best lovest, be not therefore stern: Souls burn for souls, spirits to spirits cry! I seek the splendour in thy fair face stored; Yet living man that beauty scarce can learn, And he who fain would find it, first must die.
As one who will reseek her home of light, Thy form immortal to this prison-house Descended, like an angel piteous, To heal all hearts and make the whole world bright. 'Tis this that thralls my soul in love's delight, Not thy clear face of beauty glorious; For he who harbours virtue, still will choose To love what neither years nor death can blight. So fares it ever with things high and rare Wrought in the sweat of nature; heaven above Showers on their birth the blessings of her prime: Nor hath God deigned to show Himself elsewhere More clearly than in human forms sublime; Which, since they image Him, alone I love.
It came, I know not whence, from far above, That clear immortal flame that still doth rise Within thy sacred breast, and fills the skies, And heals all hearts, and adds to heaven new love. This burns me, this, and the pure light thereof; Not thy fair face, thy sweet untroubled eyes: For love that is not love for aught that dies, Dwells in the soul where no base passions move. If then such loveliness upon its own Should graft new beauties in a mortal birth, The sheath bespeaks the shining blade within. To gain our love God hath not clearer shown Himself elsewhere: thus heaven doth vie with earth To make thee worthy worship without sin.
Swift through the eyes unto the heart within All lovely forms that thrall our spirit stray; So smooth and broad and open is the way That thousands and not hundreds enter in. Burdened with scruples and weighed down with sin, These mortal beauties fill me with dismay; Nor find I one that doth not strive to stay My soul on transient joy, or lets me win The heaven I yearn for. Lo, when erring love-- Who fills the world, howe'er his power we shun, Else were the world a grave and we undone-- Assails the soul, if grace refuse to fan Our purged desires and make them soar above, What grief it were to have been born a man!