love poetry

Unknown love
Is as bitter a thing
As the maiden-lily
Which grows in the thickets
Of the summer moor.

Those far-off fields, how fair they seem,
As soft through mists of years they gleam!
We never now around us see
Such meads as those of olden be;
We never find a lake or stream
One half so lovely as we deem
Those which we only view in dream,
Watering the fields of memory—
Those far-off fields!

And we were happy then! The theme
Of our existence, love supreme:
And looking back on Fate's decree—
On all that happened you and me—
We sigh—for dear our souls esteem
Those far-off fields!

O sea-gulls that are crying
On Sao river
How is it that,
Loving the river-beach,
You go further up the river?

(Answer)
To men indeed
We would say in general
" Our so much
Beloved river-beach
Do not snare with nets!"
(Then we will stay there).

With a rocking
(As) of great ships
Riding at anchor
I have at last become worn out with love,
Because of a child of man.

Too late, alas! ... I came to find
the lovely spring had fled
Yet must I not regret the days
of youth that now are dead;
For though the rosy buds of spring
the cruel winds have laid,
Behold the clustering fruit that hangs
beneath the leafy shade.

Xi Shi dreaming at dawn,
In the cool of silken curtains,
Scented coils of her falling chignon,
Half aloes and sandalwood.

The turning windlass of the well,
Creaking like singing jade,
Wakes with a start this lotus-blossom,
That has newly slept its fill.

Twin simurghs open her mirror,
An autumn pool of light.
She loosens her tresses before the mirror,
Stands by her ivory bed.

A single skein of perfumed silk,
Clouds cast on the floor,
Noiseless, the jade comb lights upon

She is so winsome and so wise
She sways us at her will,
And oft the question will arise
What mission does she fill?
And so I say, with pride untold
And love beyond degree,
This woman with the heart of gold,
She just keeps house for me.

A full content dwells in her face,
She's quite in love with life,
And for a title wears with grace
The sweet old-fashioned — Wife. —

What though I toil from morn till night,
What though I weary grow,
A spring of love and dear delight

Mine is no wayside rose
All may attend:
At the hill's top it grows,
At the road's end.

Deep in unchidden weeds,
Rose without stain—
His soul its beauty feeds
Who can attain.

He who attains thereto
Faith must disclose,
Ere he will shake the dew
Round its repose.

No pleasant garden-slope
Waiteth for him—
It is to him whose hope
Stayeth undim.

Who trusting receives it,
A faith, in the dale,
His hoping achieves it,
His toil shall avail!

I learn to lag behind my life's desire,
That I, impelled not rashly to despair,
May rather guide still hope to some sweet air
Of high achievement where, with statelier fire,
Nearer the stars, my passion may aspire!
Slow-tongued Experience teaches me to bear
On lips more patient Love's impatient prayer,
With toiling hands to weave my dream's attire!
Yet, oh, when fragrant evening dims the world,
What moon-flames burn in all the lamps of dew!
What lonely roses lift their hearts impearled —

Her whom dark cities never pleased
The wandergeist again hath seized;
She who in gardens loves to bore,
And the moist, rooty soil explore,
Now all the furrows of the deep,
Parterres of waving green, shall sweep.
So shall she pile with richer store
The memories on her harvest-floor;
Red sunsets, and the long, superb
White spires of many a wave-crest herb.
Amid those pleasant, foam-flowered leas,
The unwalled orchards of the seas,
She whose life loves the golden sun
Each ripening dusk shall pluck her one,