Classic Poem

H E

Oh, where are you, my own true love,
And why are you not here?
The nightingale amid the boughs
Is flattering his dear.

The night among the empty fields
Lies like a child at rest,
But empty, empty are my arms
And light, too light my breast.

S HE

If you had known what I have known,
The harsh word and the blow,
The sour meal and the heavy task,
You would not chide me so.

O, I go on through all the day,
And only hope at night,
That I may slip out silently
Without a sup or bite,

That I may find you in the dark,
Wherein you will not see
The angry red that rims my eyes
And burns them bitterly.

You have not felt what I have felt;
This only have you known
That it is sweet to walk with me
In the dark fields alone.

You only hear me speak of love
And you have never heard
My father's thin and grumbling voice,
My mother's heavy word.

Yet, ah, the most I know of you
Is nothing more than this
That when the painful day is done
Your lips are good to kiss.