in Your faithfulness

The Song Of Songs

My beloved lifts up his voice,

he says to me,

"Come then, my love,

my lovely one, come.

For see, winter is past,

the rains are over and gone.

The flowers appear on the earth.

The season of glad songs has come,

the cooing of the turtledove is heard

           in our land.

The fig tree is forming its first figs

and the blossoming vines give out their fragrance.

Come then, my love,

my lovely one, come.

My dove, hiding in the clefts of the rock,

in the coverts of the cliff,

show me your face,

let me hear your voice,

for your voice is sweet

and your face is beautiful."

. . .

Rumi

your love has brought us to this silence,
where the only obligation
is to walk slowly through a meadow
and look

William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616) : "Sonnet CXXVIII"

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st

Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds

With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

While my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand.

To be so tickled they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom [thy] fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more blest than living lips.

     Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

     give them [thy] fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

Emily Dickinson

My river runs to thee :
Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

My river waits reply.
Oh sea, look graciously !

I'll fetch thee brooks
From spotted nooks, - 

Say, sea,
Take me! 



The Outlet
Collected Poems of EMILY DICKINSON