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You stand right here beneath the tree.
You stand and rain it pours.
The more you think, the more you're free,
Just open all the doors,
Which once were closed for you and now,

Now spring has clad the grove in green, And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen Rejoice in fostering showers:
While ilka thing in nature join Their sorrows to forego,
O why thus all alone are mine The wear...

The sun has set, and the long grass now Waves dreamily in the evening wind;
And the wild bird has flown from that old gray stone In some warm nook a couch to find
In all the lonely landscape round I see no light and hear no sound,
E...

Love has nothing to do withthe five senses and the six directions:its goal is only to experiencethe attraction exerted by the Beloved
Afterwards, perhaps, permissionwill come from God:the secrets that ought to be told will be toldwith an eloq...

HE world has grown so grey, love,
The weary world so wide;
And autumn seems to stay, love —'T was autumn when you died
And everything is strange and new,

She has made me wayside posies: here they stand,
Bringing fresh memories of where they grew
As new-come travellers from a world we knew Wake every while some image of their land,
So these whose buds our woodland breezes fanned Bring...

My dear mistress has a
Soft as those kind looks she gave me,
When with love's resistless art,
And her eyes, she did enslave me;

Sunshine has filled the room with clear golden specks of dust
I woke up and remembered, dear, it was your birthday
But far beyond my windows snow has covered the ground, And made me forget, so now to atone, I sleep without dreams
...

The industrialist is having his aeroplane serviced
The priest is wondering what he said in his sermon eight weeks ago   about tithes
The generals are putting on civvies and looking like bank clerks
Public officials are getting friendly

The sun has wept rose in the shell of your ears,
The world has rolled white from your back,
Your thighs:
The sea has stained rust at the crimson of your breasts,

Here Pushkin's endless exile has begun,
And Lermontov's exile turned out fatal,
The mountain grass has a smell so sweet and gentle,
And only once I managed to discern,

What counsel has the hooded moon Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet,
Of Love in ancient plenilune,
Glory and stars beneath his feet — - A sage that is but kith and kin With the comedian Capuchin
Believe me rather that am wise In disre...