To overcome lies in the heart, in the streets, in the books
from the lullabies of the mothers
to the news report that the speaker reads,
understanding, my love, what a great joy it is,
to understand what is gone and what is on the way.
Let others say whatever they like, why didn't you say: ‘Love is never a sin'?
Why haven't you once said, standing for a while in the court of love:
‘The person engaged in love-making becomes the killer, becomes the fire,
becomes the storm, becomes the tidal surge
if you afford the power, either kill him or exile
but never call him a sinner'?
Did Abel command more capability to love thee, Aklima?
Was Abel more manly, more war-loving, more love-mongering than I?
Was Abel more destitute to the world of love than I?
you had swept back your bangs for the first time
when I saw you under the apple tree
the flower-comb in your hair
I thought you yourself were a flower too.
you stretched out your pale white hand gently
giving me an apple:
like the ripening red of the autumn fruit
my first feeling of love
my sigh, without any awareness
touched your hair
the joys of love's offerings
drinking your love...
under a tree in the apple orchard
nature's narrow road
who left this token here?
Ah me! how hard the task to bear
The weight of ills we know!
But harder still to dry the tear,
That mourns a nameless we.
If by the side of Lucy's wheel
I sit to see her spin,
My head around begins to reel,
My heart to beat within.
Or when on harvest holliday
I lead the dance along,
If Lucy chance to cross my way,
So sure she leads me wrong,
If I attempt the pipe to play,
And catch my Lucy's eye,
The trembling musick dies away,
And melts into a sigh.
Ah, love is deathless! we do cheat
Ourselves who say that we forget
Old fancies: last love may be sweet,
First love is sweeter yet.
And day by day more sweet it grows
For evermore, like precious wine,
As Time's thick cobwebs o'er it close,
Until it is divine.
Grows dearer every day and year,
Let other loves come, go at will;
Although the last love may be dear,
First love is dearer still.
My long first year of perfect love,
My deep new dream of joy; She was a little chubby girl,
I was a chubby boy.
I wore a crimson frock, white drawers,
A belt, a crown was on it;
She wore some angel's kind of dress
And such a tiny bonnet,
Old-fashioned, but the soft brown hair Would never keep its place;
A little maid with violet eyes,
And sunshine in her face.
O my child-queen, in those lost days
How sweet was daily living!
How humble and how proud I grew,
How rich by merely giving!
BY the pulse that beats in my throat
By my heart like a bird
I know who passed through the dusk
Though he spoke no word!
I cannot move in my place,
I am chained and still;
I pray that the moon pause not
By my window-sill.
I have hidden my face in my hair
And my eyes are veiled--
Not even a star must know
How my lips have paled--
Was ever a night so quick
'Neath a moon so round?
I hear the earth as it turns--
And my heart's low sound!
Yes, I know that you once were my lover,
But that sort of thing has an end,
And though love and its transports are over,
You know you can still be--my friend:
I was young, too, and foolish, remember;
(Did you ever hear John Hardy sing?)
It was then, the fifteenth of November,
And this is the end of the spring!
You complain that you are not well-treated
By my suddenly altering so;
Can I help it?--you're very conceited,
If you think yourself equal to Joe.
Don't kneel at my feet, I implore you;
A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,
The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES,
And in his church there weekly knelt
At least a hundred souls.
There little ELLEN you might see,
The modest rustic belle;
In maidenly simplicity,
She loved her BERNARD well.
Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gown
Untrimmed with lace or fur,
Yet not a husband in the town
But wished his wife like her.
Though sterner memories might fade,
You never could forget
The child-form of that baby-maid,
The Village Violet!
Ah, well can I the day recall, when first
The conflict fierce of love I felt, and said:
If this be love, how hard it is to bear!
With eyes still fixed intent upon the ground,
I saw but her, whose artless innocence,
Triumphant took possession of this heart.
Ah, Love, how badly hast thou governed me!
Why should affection so sincere and pure,
Bring with it such desire, such suffering?
Why not serene, and full, and free from guile
But sorrow-laden, and lamenting sore,
