I’ve posted this somewhere else on site at least once. But since we have a poetry section now…
This is a 15th century English poem I found in an old copy of Penguin’s Book of Mystic English Verse. (Which I bought from an antique store in Knoxville, TN, primarily so I could have the original source for this poem!)
I’ve cleaned up the rhythmical form a bit, and modernized the rhyming better. The author is quoting from the Vulgate of SongSol 2:5 and 5:8, although there it’s the Bride who is lovesick.
Quia Amore Langueo
Within the vale of restless mind
I sought on mountain and in mede.
True love I quested for to find:
upon a hill, I then took heed;
a voice I heard, quite near indeed,
in great dolour complaining tho:
“See, dear soul! My side does bleed!
Quia amore langueo!” [For I in love am suffering.]
Upon this mount I found a tree;
beneath this tree a man sitting;
from head to foot wounded was he,
his heart’s own blood I saw bleeding.
A seemly man, to be a king;
a gracious face, whose tears did flow.
I asked from where his pain did spring.
“Quia amore langueo.”
I am love that false was never;
my sister (he said) I loved her thus.
Because I would not desert her–ever!–
I left my kingdom glorious.
I paid for her a place precious.
She fled. I followed. I loved her so,
I suffered these woundings piteous!
Quia amore langueo.
Ah! My love and my lady bright!
I saved her from treason; she hath me betrayed.
I clothed her in grace and in heavenly light;
this bloody surcoat she hath on me laid.
For longing of love I shall not be dismayed;
I have loved her as ever I promised her so.
These wounds are full precious to me, though I’m flayed!
Quia amore langueo.
I crowned her with bliss; she crowned me with thorn.
I led her to bower. She led me to die.
I brought her to worship. She brought me to scorn.
I reverenced her. She spat in my eye.
To love that does love, it is no wonder why (that)
her hatred has never made my love her foe.
So ask me no more why my love does not die!!
…but quia amore langueo.
Look unto my hands here, man!
These gloves I was given, when her love I sought;
they be not white, but red and wan,
embroidered with blood–my spouse them bought.
I could take them off–but I leave them not!
With these I do woo her wherever she goes.
These hands full friendly for her have fought!!!
Quia amore langueo.
Marvel not, man, that I sit here still;
my love hath sure shod me with wonderous deed.
She buckled my feet, as was her will,
with bright sharpened nails! Observe and take heed:
I let her, though surely she had not a need.
I love her so deeply, I would give also
my body and blood for her own heart to feed!
Quia amore langueo.
Into my side I have made her a nest;
look you and see! How wide a wound here!
This is her chamber. In here she can rest,
and safe in my heart she can sleep free from fear.
Here she may wash away any filth clear;
here there is succor for all of her woe;
come, if she will, and she shall have cheer!
Quia amore langueo!
I will abide, until she is ready.
I will send love to her, though she say nay.
If she is reckless, I will be steady.
If she is haughty, I will her pray.
But if she does weep, then shall I here stay!?
My arms are full spread for to clasp her here, so!
Cry only “Come!”, and I shall not delay!
Quia amore langueo!
I sit on this hill, that I may see far.
I look to the vale. My spouse I do see.
Now she comes nearer; now she runs wayward.
Yet from my clear eyesight she never will be.
Some wait to slay her, and on her to feed!
I charge as a lion to chastise her foe!!!
Ah, my dear soul, won’t you come back to me?
Quia amore langueo!
My sweet beloved spouse, shall we go out to play?
Within my bright garden are ripening vines.
I shall bring clothing of fairest array!
Your meat shall be cold milk and honey and wine!
Now my dear soul; let us go dine!
I have for your pleasure the quick and the slow!
Tarry not dearest, oh lovéd spouse mine!
Quia amore langueo!
If you have come foul, I shall clean you fair.
If you have come sickened then I shall you heal.
If you ought to mourn, your tears I will share.
O why, my dear spouse, will you not with me deal!?
What love do you seek that could be so more real!?
Tell me, I beg you: what shall I do more!?
Against your own hatred, I make the appeal!
Quia amore langueo!
What more shall I do for you, oh my dear spouse?..
I will abide here in deepest address.
If you would but look up from out of your house
built of selfish desire, and of uncleanliness.
Your bed I have made, and your bower blooms bliss,
and your chambers are chosen–oh, look up dear soul!
I would share all I have! I would give you my best!!
Quia amore langueo!
Although your desires might be ever so high,
my love is more deep than your dreaming can be.
Your joy and your sorrow I share sitting by,
yet how I do wish you would look here to me!
How long shall you feed your self only on thee?
Till you starve without meat? Oh my love, be not so!
I say to you with the utmost sureity:
Quia amore langueo.
My spouse is in chamber…! Hold you your peace!
Make not a noise; but let her sleep.
My love shall suffer no more disease.
And if ever the tears from her eyes she weeps,
I shall share with her strength from my heart to keep.
No wonder it is, that I tend her so;
this hole in my side has been never so deep,
but quia amore langueo.
Do not be weary, my own dear wife!
Find strength in our love, for our work can begin.
Together against tribulation and strife,
we shall stand and give life unto others again.
Let me lift you up high, so you fly in the wind,
to give hope and give love wheresoever you go.
And your home shall be deep
in the stars of heaven,
in bliss…
quia amore langueo.
