This website stores both public-domain AND copyright-protected material.
It is illegal to copy and distribute material marked copyright
**** YES, THAT INCLUDES CONCERT PROGRAMS. ****
I asked of my desolate shipwrecked soul
"Wouldst thou rather never have met
The one whom thou lovedst beyond control
And whom thou adorest yet?"
Back from the senses, the heart, the brain,
Came the answer swiftly thrown,
"What matter the price? We would pay it again,
We have had, we have loved, we have known!"
Confirmed with Laurence Hope, Complete Love Lyrics, Dodd, Mead & Company, 1906, page 270.
Ah, the cool silence of the shaded hours,
The scent and colour of the jungle flowers!
Thou art one of the jungle flowers, strange and fierce and fair,
Palest amber, perfect lines, and scented with champa flower.
Lie back and frame thy face in the gloom of thy loosened hair;
Sweet thou art and loved -- ay, loved -- for an hour.
But thought flies far, ah, far, to another breast,
Whose whiteness breaks to the rose of a twin pink flower,
Where wind the azure veins that my lips caressed
When Fate was gentle to me for a too-brief hour.
There is my spirit's home and my soul's abode,
The rest are only inns on the traveller's road.
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar,
Where are you now? [Who lies beneath your spell?]1
Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,
Before you agonise them in farewell?
Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins
Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.
Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!
Call me not to a secret place
when daylight dies away,
tempt me not with tine eager face
and words thou shouldst not say.
Entice me not with a child of thine,
ah, God, if such might be,
for surely a man is half divine
who adds another link to the line
whose last link none may see.
Call me not to the Lotus lake
where drooping fuchsias hide,
what if my latent youth awakes
and will not be denied?
Ah, tempt me not for I am not strong
(thy mouth is a budded kiss)
My days are empty, my nights are long;
ah,why is a thing so sweet so wrong,
why is a thing so sweet so wrong
as thy temptation is?
When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly...
Stoop, as the yellow roses droop
In the wind from the south;
So I may when I wake - if there be an awakening -
Keep what lulled me to sleep -
The touch of your lips on my mouth.