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In the shadow of Your locks I hide my eyes from the terrors;

But You are not greatly concerned—

Closer and closer I draw toward the dear Face.

See—I set my lips against Your lips,

But You do not answer:

Steadfast and grave beyond me Your eyes are burning,

As of one that dreams.

I am clinging here at Your heart!

I am singing my love of You for sheer joy!

Mother, what is it that trembles on Your lashes so soft—

And Your lips are salt as the taste of the sea?

Can it be for me Your eyes are brimming, Mother,

Even as they smile?

Can they be for me, these drops on Your lips so warm?

Dear One, do I understand at last!

O holy draught, wine of the world, bewildering and bitter-sweet!

Sacred tears, from the depths of what wild love welling!

Deeper and deeper let me drink and draw—

Nirvana, divine oblivion....

Bitter is the taste of Your lips, Belovèd!

* * * * *

Though I lie in the darkness, yet often do I remember You—and wonder—

And the touch of Your lips, how strange, and how sad.

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