  Not all those women you have loved and left, O my Beloved, can stir my jealousy; Not the light loves which you forgot for me, For my heart's fingers made by life most deft Have mended all the rents their arrows cleft And from their old enchantments set you free. But one is my despair, and only she, The one who loved you, hopeless and bereft. How can I give as much, who hold your heart As she, unloved who gave with scorn of gain? So do the angels; at her name I smart And feel a sordid bargainer who gives For fair exchange; I cannot heal the pain, I am defeated by her while she lives. |
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