The Novice

I love one and he loveth me:
Who sayeth this? who deemeth this?
And is this thought a cause of bliss,
  Or source of misery?

The loved may die, or he may change:
And if he die thou art bereft;
Or if he alter nought is left
  Save life that seemeth strange.

A weary life, a hopeless life,
Full of all ill and fear-oppressed;
A weary life that looks for rest
  Alone after death's strife.

And love's joy hath no quiet even;
It evermore is variable.
Its gladness is like war in hell
  More than repose in heaven.

Yea it is as a poison-cup
That holds one quick fire-draught within;
For when the life seems to begin
  The slow death looketh up.

Then bring me to a solitude
Where love may neither come nor go;
Where very peaceful waters flow,
  And roots are found for food;

Where the wild honey-bee booms by,
And trees and bushes freely give
Ripe fruit and nuts: there I would live,
  And there I fain would die.

There autumn leaves may make my grave,
And little birds sing over it;
And there cool twilight winds may flit
  And shadowy branches wave.