Love’s smiling countenance I know,
But not the anger of the god,
For I have wandered where Boccaccio
And Casanova trod.
I am aweary of these pleasant things,
The gallant dalliance and the well-watched fire:
Give me the magic of a thousand springs
That shook the blood of young Assyrian kings,
That stirs the young monk in his cell, and stings
Crimson and hot!
Wearing the crown of unassuaged desire,
Break me or bless me--only love me not!
Come as a wanton red with rouge and wine
And I shall weave out of my song for thee
A purpler cloak than his
Who, hating, loved that Lesbia. Come to me
A saint--the halo shall be thine
Of Beatrice.
There is no joy in tender loves or wise,
No sweet in wrong:
Come unto me with cruel, loveless eyes,
O iron passion of the lords of song!