The Infirm Beggar Sings

Broken and bruised by the hand of Fate, Dark night, my staff, Leaning on its shadowy strength I walk Toward thee, my God. Thy crescent my e'er-present friend; Thy wind, thy voice, Calls me to go on without end To thy star that my soul hath seen. The hour is black, my road unbuilt; My beggar's song I cannot sing; yet, thou knowest, For thy love I long! I come, O Lord! broken and battered To thy world where sorrow is not.

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Kiss, my love, kiss My burning, breaking being; So when cold death Will put out the light In some wilderness Of far forsaken life Might each kiss blossom Into a lotus and a Shephali. And in the desolate hours Of loneliness of traveling In the dusk of despair One petal of these Will cheer the vagrant souls That tread the pathway Of love's forsaking. Or, when Death will sow This Soul of mine On the lake-shore of sorrow, Like a weeping willow I will spring, And with my green tresses And bending body Shall shelter secrecy-seeking lovers That love for an hour, As our twin hearts today. Kiss then, with kisses of flame; Touch me with rosy caresses; Bury this, my hope, my dream, And thy all-conquering love of me; So the kiss-flowers may each be a dream! May my willow be the vision of Eternal Spring.

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