love poems for her

Now that
at last
the dogs
that once barked at you
are
used to your touch,
don't
stay
away from the house
they linger around

With what harshness
they come blowing
toward me —
the mountain winds
from deep
within
the heart
of one who asks

I try to hide it,
but still my love
burns within —
grasses of springtime
whose colors
show the more
clearly
for a layer

Ah, if only
the sight
of blossoms
at close of day
would
stay with me!
Then though asleep,
I would not part
from
my dream
of a spring night.

In evening's gloom,
I thought
I saw
the dim form
of the one I love,
there now
as a memento
in the haze
'round the dawn moon.

Think of it
as cruel —
but still
it brings back memories:
that glaring moon
that had
such a distant look
at the moment

My love was real,
yet treated as a joke—
in that long ago
childhood,
how I felt it!

Loving the spring evening alone, I step down to the garden,
a breeze, a soft moon, both comely and fair.
Were my clothes not to become soaked with dew,
I'd lie under cherry blossoms until the day breaks.

I WHO love this land, who love this wide valley,
The straight high temples of the hills, the river's curve,
The smooth unbroken water, the fertile meadows,
What is my love, what is this memory I serve?

I, a stranger from another land, a newcomer
Of two brief centuries ago, alien and pale,
Talking a strange tongue, looking over this vastness
With short-seeing eyes, dimly, behind a veil;

What should I, who was bred in square houses
With fear and a flintlock always ready at hand,

It was never more than a face,
An impression merely; a bit
Of failing landscape — her grace
Just caught as the rain-cloud split
And the air grew warm a space.

And now it is many years,
And I, with my thin hair gray,
Face wrinkled — perhaps by tears! —
'Tis strange how my yesterday
Of dead youth reappears.

I wonder if after all
I've any right to complain!
As the shadows weave on the wall,
And we feel the wash of rain
Through the light grown thin and small;