Oh, come, Beloved, before my beauty fades,
Pity the sorrow of my loneliness.
I am a Rosebush that the Cypress shades,
No sunbeams find or lighten my distress.
Daily I watch the waning of my bloom.
Ah, piteous fading of a thing so fair!
While Fate, remorseless, weaving at her loom,
Twines furtive silver in my twisted hair.
This noon I watched a tremulous fading rose
Rise on the wind to court a butterfly.
“One speck of pollen, ere my petals close,
Bring me one touch of love before I die!”
But the gay butterfly, who had the power
To grant, refused, flew far across the dell,
And, as he fertilised a younger flower,
The petals of the rose, defrauded, fell.
Such was my fate, thou hast not come to me,
Thine eyes are absent, and thy voice is mute,
Though I am slim, as this Papaya tree,
With breasts out-pointing, even as its fruit.
Beauty was mine, it brought me no caress,
My lips were red, yet there were none to taste,
I saw my youth consume in loneliness,
And all the fervour of my heart run waste.
While I still hoped that Thou would’st come to me,
I and the garden waited for their Lord.
Here He will rest, beneath this Champa tree;
Hence, all ye spike-set grasses from the sward!
In this cool rillet I shall bathe His feet,
Come, rounded pebbles from a smoother shore.
This is the honey that His lips will eat,
Hasten, O bees, enhance the amber store!
Ripen, ye Custard Apples, round and fair,
Practise your songs, O Bulbuls, on the bough,
Surely some sweeter sweetness haunts the air;
Maybe His feet draw near us, even now!
Disperse, ye fireflies, clustered on the palm,
Love heeds no lamp, he welcomes moonless skies:
Soon shall ye find, O stars, serene and calm,
Your sparkling rivals in my lover’s eyes!
Closely I wove my leafy Jasmin bowers,
Hoping to hide my pleasure and my shame,
Where the Lantana’s indecisive flowers
Vary from palest rose to orange flame.
Ay, there were lovely hours, ‘neath fern and palm,
Almost my aching longing I forgot.
White nights of silence, noons of golden calm,
All past, all wasted, since Thou camest not!
Night after night the Champa trees distilled
Their cruel sweetness on the careless air.
Noon after noon I watched the Bulbuls build,
And saw with hungry eyes the Sun-birds pair.
None came, and none will come; no use to wait,–
Youth’s fragrance dies, its tender light dies down.
I will arise, before it grows too late,
And seek the noisy brilliance of the town.
These many waiting years I longed for gold,
Now must I needs console me with alloy.
Before this beauty fades, this pulse grows cold,
I may not love, I will at least enjoy!
Farewell, my Solitude of scented flowers,
Across whose glades the emerald parrots gleam,
Haunt of false hope, and home of wasted hours,
I am awake, at last,–Guard thou the dream!
A few random poems:
- Lines On The Expected Invasion, 1803 by William Wordsworth
- On An Infant (From The Greek) by William Cowper
- Владимир Набоков – Стансы (Ничем не смоешь подписи косой)
- The Bride poem – Ambrose Bierce poems | Poems and Poetry
- A Bucolic Betwixt Two; Lacon and Thyrsis by Robert Herrick
- Inscriptions In The Ground Of Coleorton, The Seat Of Sir George Beaumont, Bart., Leicestershire by William Wordsworth
- Arrival by Philip Larkin
- Abd el-Hadi Fights a Superpower by Taha Muhammad Ali
- Ellen Irwin Or The Braes Of Kirtle by William Wordsworth
- An Acre Of Grass by William Butler Yeats
- In A Garden by Sara Teasdale
- The Captive by Rudyard Kipling
- The Stwonen Bwoy Upon The Pillar by William Barnes
- Petals poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry
- Владимир Бенедиктов – Люблю тебя
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Aubade by William Shakespeare
- A Lover’s Complaint by William Shakespeare
- A Fairy Song by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 128: How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 149: Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 148: O me! what eyes hath love put in my head by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 147: My love is as a fever, longing still by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 146: Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 145: Those lips that Love’s own hand did make by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 144: Two loves I have, of comfort and despair by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 143: Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 142: Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 141: In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 140: Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 13: O, that you were your self! But, love, you are by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 138: When my love swears that she is made of truth by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 137: Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 136: If thy soul check thee that I come so near by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 135: Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 134: So, now I have confessed that he is thine by William Shakespeare
More external links (open in a new tab):
Doska or the Board – write anything
Search engines:
Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)
Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.
Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees
Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.
Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works

Violet Nicolson ( 1865 – 1904); otherwise known as Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory), was an English poetess who wrote under the pseudonym of Laurence Hope, however she became known as Violet Nicolson. In the early 1900s, she became a best-selling author. She committed suicide and is buried in Madras, now Chennai, India.