DO you not feel the white glow in your breast, my bird? That is the flame of love I send to you from afar: Not a wafted kiss, hardly a whispered word, But love itself that flies as a white-winged star. Let it dwell there, let it rest there, at home in your heart: Wafted on winds of gold, it is Love itself, the Dove. Not the god whose arrows wounded with bitter smart, Nor the purple-fiery birds of d**h and love. Do not ask for the hands of love or love's soft eyes: They give less than love who give all, giving what wanes. I give you the star-fire, the heart-way to Paradise, With no d**h after, no arrow with stinging pains.