Lost to one another, the living and the dead, these ten years.
I have not tried to remember
What is impossible to forget.
Your solitary grave is a thousand miles away,
No way to tell you my loneliness.
If we were to meet, you would not recognize me —
Face covered with dust,
Hair like frost.

Last night in a dark dream I was all at once back home.
You were combing your hair
At the little window.
We looked at one another without speaking
And could only weep streaming tears.
Year after year I expect it will go on breaking my heart —

How many times has the moon shone full?
Lifting my cup I ask the blue sky.
In the palaces and towers of Heaven
What season is it tonight, I wonder.
I should like to ride there on the wind,
But I fear I could not stand the cold
Of those crystal domes and jade halls on high.
I rise and dance and make my shadow move:
How much nicer it is here!

Over vermilion chambers,
Through curtained windows
Shining on the sleepless—
The moon should not be blamed.
But why always full when friends are separated?

Both gentlemen, and yeomen bold,
Or whatsoever you are,
To have a stately story told
Attention now prepare:

It is a tale of Robin Hood,
Which I to you will tell;
Which, being rightly understood,
I know will please you well.

This Robin (so much talked on)
Was once a man of fame,
Instiled earl of Huntington,
Lord Robin Hood by name.

In courtship and magnificence
His carriage won him praise,
And greater favour with his prince
Than any in " those" days.

In bounteous liberality
He too much did excell,
And loved men of quality

There's no keeping back spring —
The swallow has aged, the warbler is tired and nowhere to be found.
Tell departing spring,
Once old, no one ever turned young again.

The breeze is mild, the moon is fine,
If you've got the money, buy a smile.
Make the best of the fragrant hour —
Don't wait until the flowers are gone before you break the branch.

A goblet of wine.
A verse newly composed:
The same old terrace and pavilion,
The same weather,
As last year's.
The westering sun —
When will it be here again?

Swallows coming back seem to be old acquaintances;
Flowers fade away, do what one may.
Inside the small garden,
Up and down the scented footpath,

Born with the Vices of my kind,
 I should inconstant be;
Dear Celia , could I rambling find,
 More Beauty than in thee:
The rolling Surges of my Blood,
 By Virtue now grown low;
Should a new Show'r encrease the Flood,
 Too soon would overflow.
But Frailty (when thy Face I see)
 Does modestly retire;
Uncommon must her Graces be,
 Whose Look can bound desire:
Not to my Virtue, but thy Pow'r,
 This Constancy is due;
When Change itself can give no more,
 'Tis easy to be true.

Green willows and fragrant grass by the posthouse road
Where the young man left me without a pang.
An unfinished dream at the fifth watch bell
The sorrow of parting under the blossoms in a third month rain.

Insensitive misses susceptible's bitterness,
Whose every inch turns into a thousand myriad strands.
The sky's edge, earth's corner — sometime they come to an end;
It's just this longing that is never done.

Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the pale
Of peers and princes, high in camp--at court--
He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report,
Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale,
Of a young people struggling to be free!
Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies,
Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize!
And shares the glories of its victory.
Then comes for fifty years a high romance
Of toils, reverses, sufferings, in the cause
Of man and justice, liberty and France,
Crowned, at the last, with hope and wide applause.

" Honest — honest Iago!
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
SHAKSPEARE .

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd —
Raised from the toilet to the table, — where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair, —
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie —
The genial confidante, and general spy —

BORN are we of fire
And orderly desire,
And on that day
The leaves all pray
And the stars all wait
By the smallest wooden gate
To listen to the cry
Of a woman by and by.
And they gather in the door to see his little feet
And go away and whisper there are none more sweet;
And they peep in his eyes and laugh like a lord
To see another human that is not yet bored . . .
Old men and ladies, they go that way
And very, very silly are the things they say!

We are born of woman