This canto is given entire.
The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon,
Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting
Was preparation of herself full soon
To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.
Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought
On every spot where he might be, in vain,
Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought,
The lover she should never see again.
She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live,
Lord of my life?" And at the last she found
Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive,
Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.
With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained
By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair,
She wept and to the forest world complained,
As if the forest in her grief might share.
"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish;
Perfect its loveliness in every part;
I saw that beauty fade away and perish,
Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!
Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only
Endured, and I for ever need its power;
Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely,
When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.
Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish;
I never did a thing to work thee harm;
Why should I thus in vain affliction languish?
Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?
Of playful chastisements art thou reminded,
Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands,
Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded,
Held for thy meet correction in these hands?
I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often
'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true,
But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften:
Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.
Think not that on the journey thou hast taken
So newly, I should fail to find thy track;
Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken,
For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.
Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden
Through veils of midnight darkness in the town
To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,
And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?
The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,
That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,
Is now deception; for if flashing glances
Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.
And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,
Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,
Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance,
And even in his waxing time, will wane.
Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding
On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,
Greeted by ko