Can it be that SHE, seeing further than we can, perceived the germ and smouldering spark of greatness which lay hid within her lover's soul, and well knew that under the influence of her gift of life, watered by her wisdom, and shone upon by the sunshine of her presence, it would bloom like a flower and flash out like a star, filling the world with light and fragrance?
THOU ART MY CHOSEN - I have waited for thee from the beginning! Thou art very beautiful. Who hath hair like unto thee, or skin so white? Who hath an arm so strong, who is so much a man? Thine eyes are the sky, and the light of them is the stars:
THOU ART PERFECT and of a happy face, and my heart turned itself towards thee. Ay, when mine eyes fell upon thee I did desire thee, -- Then did I take thee to me -- O thou Beloved, And hold thee fast, lest harm should come upon thee. Ay, I did cover thine head with mine hair, lest the sun should strike it; Altogether was I thine, and thou wast altogether mine.
Love is like a flower in the desert. It is like the aloe of Arabia, that blooms but once and dies; it blooms in the salt emptiness of Life, and the brightness of its beauty is set upon the waste as a star set upon a storm. It hath the sun above that is the Spirit, and about it blows the air of its divinity. At the echoing of a step Love blooms, I say; I say Love blooms, And bends her beauty down to him who passeth by. He plucketh it, yea, he plucketh the red cup that is full of honey, and beareth it away; away across the desert, away till the flower be withered away, till the desert be done.
There is only one perfect flower in the wilderness of Life.
That flower is Love!There is only one fixed light in the mist of our wanderings.
That light is Love!There is only one hope in our despairing night.
That hope is Love!All else is false. All else is shadow moving upon water.
All else is wind and vanity.Who shall say what is the weight or measure of love?
It is born of the flesh, it dwelleth in the spirit.
From each doth it draw its comfort.
For beauty it is as a star.
Many are its shapes, but all are beautiful,
and none know whence that star rose,
or the horizon where it shall set.
-- H. Rider Haggard, "She"