Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar

Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel, Less than the rust that never stained thy sword,

I would have rather felt you round my throat Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

Less than the weed that grows beside thy door

Song like a rose should be; Each rhyme a petal sweet; For fragrance, melody, That when her lips repeat The words, her heart may know What secret makes them so:—

And also there’s a little star So white a virgin’s it must be:— Perhaps the lamp my love in heaven Hangs out to light the way for me.

O fairest of the feather’d train! For whom I sing, for whom I burn, Attend with pity to my strain, And grant my love a kind return.