Song of Solomon, 4:12-16

A garden locked is my sister, my bride,
a spring locked, a fountain sealed.
Your shoots are an orchard of pomegranates
with all choicest fruits,
henna with nard,
nard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon,
with all trees of frankincense,
myrrh and aloes,
with all choice spices—
a garden fountain, a well of living water,
and flowing streams from Lebanon.

Awake, O north wind,
and come, O south wind!
Blow upon my garden,
let its spices flow.

It is especially difficult

to look another human in the eye for any period of time at all without beginning to fall in love. That is why people look away from each other so quickly. They don’t dare look each other right in the eye for very long. The love that will follow will overwhelm them. Yet it is because they don’t know what to do with that love that they are overwhelmed.

— Neil Donald Walsch

A Vision of Zimiamvia

by Eric Rücker Eddison

I will have gold and silver for my delight:
Hangings of red silk, purfled and work’d in gold
With mantichores and what worse shapes of fright
Terror Antiquus spawn’d in the days of old.
I will have columns of Parian vein’d with gems,
Their capitals by Pheidias’ self design’d,
By his hand carv’d, for flowers with strong smooth stems,
Nepenthe, Elysian Amaranth, and their kind.

I will have night: and the taste of a field well fought,
And a golden bed made wide for luxury;
And there,– since else were all things else prov’d naught,–
Bestower and hallower of all things: I will have Thee.

–Thee, and hawthorn time. For in that new birth though all
Change, you I will have unchang’d: even that dress,
So fall’n to your hips as lapping waves should fall:
You, cloth’d upon with your beauty’s nakedness.

The line of your flank: so lily-pure and warm:
The globéd wonder of splendid breasts laid bare:
The gleam, like cymbals a-clash, when you lift your arm;
And the faun leaps out with the sweetness of red-gold hair.

My dear,– my tongue is broken: I cannot see:
A sudden subtle fire beneath my skin
Runs, and an inward thunder deafens me,
Drowning mine ears: I tremble. – O unpin

Those pins of anachite diamond, and unbraid
Those strings of margery-pearls, and so let fall
Your python tresses in their deep cascade
To be your misty robe imperial. –

The beating of wings, the gallop, the wild spate,
Die down. A hush resumes all Being, which you
Do with your starry presence consecrate,
And peace of moon-trod gardens and falling dew.

Two are our bodies: two are our minds, but wed.
On your dear shoulder, like a child asleep,
I let my shut lids press, while round my head
Your gracious hands their benediction keep.

Mistress of my delights; and Mistress of Peace:
O ever changing, never changing, You:
Dear pledge of our true love’s unending lease,
Since true to you means to mine own self true.–

I will have gold and jewels for my delight:
Hyacinth, ruby, and smaragd, and curtains work’d in gold
With mantichores and what worse shapes of fright
Terror Antiquus spawn’d in the days of old.

Earth I will have, and the deep sky’s ornament:
Lordship, and hardship, and peril by land and sea.–
And still, about cock-shut time, to pay for my banishment,
Safe in the lowe of the firelight I will have Thee.

The world thinks we idealize our friend, and tells us that love is proverbially blind.

Not so: it is only love that sees… We only see what dull eyes never see at all. If we wonder what another man sees in his friend, it should be the wonder of humility, not the supercilious wonder of pride. He sees something which we are not permitted to witness. Beneath and amongst what looks only like worthless slag, there may glitter the pure gold of a fair character. That anybody in the world should be got to love us, and to see in us not what colder eyes see, not even what we are but what we may be, should of itself make us humble and gentle in our criticism of others’ friendships. Our friends see the best in us, and by that very fact call forth the best from us.

Friendship, Hugh Black

{x}

Indi, come orologio che ne chiami

nell’ora che la sposa di Dio surge
a mattinar lo sposo perchè l’ami,
che l’una parte l’altra tira e urge,
tin tin sonando con sì dolce nota,
che ‘l ben disposto spirto d’amor turge;
così vid’ io la glorïosa rota
muoversi e render voce a voce in tempra
ed in dolcezza ch’esser non pò nota
se non colà dove gioir s’ insempra.

– from Paradiso, Dante Alighieri
(via George MacDonald)