The Message

Do you not feel the white glow in your breast, my bird?

That is the flame of love I send to you from afar:

Not a wafted kiss, hardly a whispered word,

But love itself that flies as a white-winged star.

Let it dwell there, let it rest there, at home in your heart:

Wafted on winds of gold, it is Love itself, the Dove.

Not the god whose arrows wounded with bitter smart,

Nor the purple-fiery birds of death and love.

Do not ask for the hands of love or love's soft eyes:

They give less than love who give all, giving what wanes.

I give you the star-fire, the heart-way to Paradise,

With no death after, no arrow with stinging pains.