Song and Love

Tell me, oh my love: are the vineyards ripe: are the rivers wet?
Draw me near, oh perfect beaut; and spell me bound, my soul.
Daughters of Zion, I welcome pain; and welcome love: a
Rightly flame; and do we cry—the pith of love: a daisy tear:
A woman’s blood. My fairest queen, of every shade: a maiden
Green: a lover’s pain; and curtains gold, a kingly stir: a
Vineyard ripe: a foxy fir. Tell me love, a fury storm; and passion
Warm, a curtain torn. My darkest light, the tears of love: a
Fervent grace, a sagic shove; and fairest light, a fathom faint:
A feral weed, a pain to paint; but feed the flock, and tend the
Sheep: my trumpet rose: my rising heat; for dear beloved, we
Perish soft; and captured pearls, a sightly loss. Indeed the hills,
A field of love; and maiden fare, a saintly dove; but oh the rain,
A rising dawn: a torn affair, a mournful psalm.