O wherefore ever onward Love, O why
Not rest with me awhile, and bid me take
Thine own sweet flowers that everywhere grow high
In meadows glorious made by that deep lake,
Reflecting clear the heaven of thy sweet grace:
Teach me, O Love, to pluck these flowers of thine,
Give me to see and know thy blessed face,
That everlasting wisdom may be mine:—
I feel the charm of sweetest misery,
I know the mountain-land of quick extremes,
Thick flowers and deepest snows I also see,
I feel great sorrow mix with brightest dreams;—
Sweet Love! O rush not thus so quickly by,
But live with me that joy may never die.