Classic Poem

When she is kissed by thee, she remembers magic sounds;
She leaps to thy fingers' touch like a tenderly loved woman;
She sings with the liquid voices of birds,
And the innocent voices of young girls in the forests,
Or in the meadows by melodiously running streams.

There the warm sun lies upon smoothly turning waters,
And the meadow-lark transposes that warm smoothness into sound.

She is the loved one of thy lips, O boy.
She gives thee kiss for kiss, and her secret soul
Cries out in passionate joy to the harmonies of thy secret soul!

Now there is sorrow, as of twilight when lovers meet
Among the roses in some ancient garden.
There is a sorrow of separation,
But there is also a sorrow of being together.
Do not lovers know this when they meet at twilight among roses
Where the curved moon makes a pallid light through the enclasping yews?