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From thee comes madness, nor the less
Comes highest joy, comes ecstasy.
Nor in my love for thee I fear
Or shame and blame, or hate and spite.
When Love was throned within my heart
I rent the veil of modesty,
And stints not Love to rend that veil,
Garring disgrace on grace to alight.
The robe of sickness then I donned,
But rent to rags was secrecy.
Wherefore my love and longing heart
Proclaim your high supremest might.
The teardrop railing adown my cheek
Telleth my tale of ignomy.
And all the hid was seen by all
And all my riddle ree'd aright.
Heal then my malady, for thou
Art malady and remedy!
But she whose cure is in thy hand
Shall ne'er be free of bane and blight.
Burn me those eyne that radiance rain,
Slay me the swords of phantasy.
How many hath the sword of Love
Laid low, their high degree despite?
Yet will I never cease to pine,
Nor to oblivion will I flee.


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