266. The Beloved

BLOW gently over my garden,

Wind of the Southern sea,

In the hour that my Love cometh

And calleth me!

My Love shall entreat me sweetly,

With voice like the wood-pigeon;

‘I am here at the gate of thy garden,

Here in the dawn.’

Then I shall rise up swiftly

All in the rose and grey,

And open the gate to my Lover

At dawning of day.

He hath crowns of pain on His forehead,

And wounds in His hands and feet;

But here mid the dews of my garden

His rest shall be sweet.

Then blow not out of your forests,

Wind of the icy North;

But Wind of the South that is healing

Rise and come forth!

And shed your musk and your honey,

And spill your odours of spice,

For one who forsook for my garden

His Paradise!