| WHEN the storm was in the sky, | |
| And the west was black with showers, | |
| My Beloved came by | |
| With His Hands full of flowers— | |
| Red burning flowers, | 5 |
| Like flame that pulsed and throbbed— | |
| And beyond in the rain-smitten bowers | |
| The turtle-dove sobbed. | |
| |
| (Sweet in the rough weather | |
| The voice of the turtle-dove— | 10 |
| ‘Beautiful altogether | |
| Is my Love. | |
| His Hands are open spread for love | |
| And full of jacinth stones— | |
| As the apple-tree among trees of the grove | 15 |
| Is He among the sons.’ | |
| |
| The voice of the turtle-dove | |
| Sweet in the wild weather— | |
| ‘Until the daybreak dwells my Love | |
| Among the hills of Bether. | 20 |
| Among the lilied lawns of Bether, | |
| As a young hart untired— | |
| Chosen out of thousands,—altogether | |
| To be desired.’) | |
| |
| When the night was in the sky, | 25 |
| And heavily went the hours, | |
| My Beloved drew nigh | |
| With His Hands full of flowers— | |
| Burning red flowers | |
| Like cups of scented wine— | 30 |
| And He said, ‘They are all ours, | |
| Thine and Mine. | |
| |
| ‘I gathered them from the bitter Tree— | |
| Why dost thou start? | |
| I gathered the Five of them for thee, | 35 |
| Child of My Heart. | |
| These are they that have wrung my Heart, | |
| And with fiercest pangs have moved Me— | |
| I gathered them—why dost thou shrink apart? | |
| In the house of them that loved Me.’ | 40 |
| |
| (Sweet through the rain-swept blast | |
| The moan of the turtle-dove— | |
| ‘You, that see Him go past, | |
| Tell Him I languish with love. | |
| Thou hast wounded my heart, O my Love! | 45 |
| With but one look of Thine eyes, | |
| While yet the boughs are naked above | |
| And winter is in the skies.’) | |
| |
| ‘Honey-laden flowers | |
| For the children nursed on the knee, | 50 |
| Who sow not bramble among their bowers— | |
| But what’ He said ‘for thee? | |
| Not joys of June for thee, | |
| Not lily, no, nor rose— | |
| For thee the blossom of the bitter Tree, | 55 |
| More sweet than ought that blows.’ | |
| |
| (The voice of the turtle-dove— | |
| ‘How shall my heart be fed | |
| With pleasant apples of love, | |
| When the winter time has fled, | 60 |
| The rain and the winter fled, | |
| How all His gifts shall grace me, | |
| When His Left Hand is under my head, | |
| And His Right Hand doth embrace me.’) | |
