Have you forgotten all my passion, O Hagar,Have you turned from love's sweet path, O poet, wanderer?
How did you bend toward pleasures manifold and deep,And forget my share in beauty radiant and steep?
How did you stoop to gather from the garden's bowersFlowers that flutter without any fragrant powers?
And you forgot the meadow hides its grief within,And you forgot that love is not for hearts of tin.
And you forgot the one who gave her heart to you,And you forgot who braved all peril, tried and true.
And you forgot the one who lavished all her love,And you forgot my yearning and my pain, O dove?
Forever does my heart address you—would that itMight find some comfort from the poet's absent lit.
And you went sporting with the hearts and with their fate,And roam to trifle with love's fire and tempt your state.
Am I not, for what I suffer in this love's domain,Like flowers on a gloomy, rainy, overcast day of pain?
Is this the way a heart forgets its own beloved?Is this the way a heart grows cold, by passion moved?
Is this the way you cast off tenderness in love,And roam rejoicing in the world and proudly prove?
Tell me—are all these creatures equal in their lot,In destiny, in love—or do they aid each other's plot?
Have you forgotten all my passion, O Hagar,Have you turned from love's sweet path, O poet, wanderer?
And you forgot your weaving in your poems so vast,And you forgot a heart like some winged bird downcast?
And you forgot my love whose inspiration soared on high,And you forgot my covenant with love, O tyrant nigh?
And you forgot we once ascended, you and I,Toward the heavens and toward eternity's bright sky?
Is this the way you forget and roam in careless mirth?Alas, my soul, for that heart wandering the earth!
Alas, my soul, for that tyrannical heart of stone!Forever I yearn for nearness—I would hasten on!
Forever I yearn for that affection which I holdSo dear—toward it like a dove on wings I would unfold.
Tell me—does love fade in youth's bright, early prime,Or will the absent lover pine for me in time?
O heart, have you a voice to chide your absent friend,Or are you shepherd of affection, patient to the end?
I once believed that after love I would attainBliss from my poet-lover, free from every pain.
My heart is wounded at the memory of my dear,My eye is dim with tears that overflow and appear.
Would I were in this distance changed into a bird,To flutter round you in the early morning, undeterred!
Or would I were a narcissus flower, fair and white,That you might stoop to kiss with tenderness and light!
To spread my fragrance like the wine most deeply craved,And beautify the garden, freshly groomed and braved.
Why do you sport in your love's sway with such restraint,And roam concealing passion, feigning cold complaint?
And why rejoice in heedless folly, roaming free,While thought's bright star keeps watch, a sleepless sentry?
And why do you play with maidens, heedless of my plea?Do you trifle gladly, O enchanter, merrily?
Do not suppose a soul brimful of love's own fireIs satisfied by any treacherous heart's desire.
Do not suppose the heart that's nourished on love's flameAccepts another's love, however rich its name.
Do not embrace dull silence—for it withers hearts away,And that is fortune's lot for those who love and stray.
Perhaps your silence is a poet's truce, a brief reprieve,And tomorrow love's old sorrows in your breast will weave.
Perhaps your heart will settle on its tablet's page,And race to me like some enchanted, gentle breeze on stage.
The heart forgives you every sin in full release,So come like some sweet dream that glides in perfect peace.
O you I love and hold most dear—and I confessI love you as the pure angel loves, with tenderness!
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