poems about love

In this old garden, fair, I walk to-day
Heart-charmed with all the beauty of the scene:
The rich, luxuriant grasses' cooling green,
The wall's environ, ivy-decked and gray,

The waving branches with the wind at play,
The slight and tremulous blooms that show between,
Sweet all: and yet my yearning heart doth lean
Toward Love's Egyptian fleshpots far away.

Beside the wall, the slim Laburnum grows
And flings its golden flow'rs to every breeze.
But e'en among such soothing sights as these,

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.

For no love borne by me,
Neither because I care
To find that thou art fair,—
To give another pain I gaze on thee.

And now, lest such as thought that thou couldst move
My heart, should read this verse,
I will say here, another has my love.
An angel of the spheres
She seems, and I am hers;
Who has more gentleness
And owns a fairer face
Than any woman else,—at least, to me.
Sweeter than any, more in all at ease,
Lighter and lovelier.
Not to disparage thee; for whoso sees
May like thee more than her.

If I'd known you were coming, love, I'd have spread gems in my weed-covered garden

You are like those scarves, those white beach waves—I can't go near you, you're cold, my love, yet I long for you

Like this I'll wait for you, my love—till the moon, that appears when night deepens, has gone down

No way of consoling myself for this love; for days on end you didn't appear in my dreams, and the year has passed

Longing for you, my love, but not knowing what to do, I had my white-cloth sleeve turned. Have I appeared in your dreams?

Even on spring days you work the fields and tire yourself, my love.
With no wife like young grass you work the fields and tire yourself.

With a basket, a lovely basket,
with a trowel, a lovely trowel,
you pick herbs on this hill, child,
I ask you about your house, tell me.
This sky-filling land of Yamato,
I am the one who rules it all,
seated, I govern it all.
I will tell you
my house and my name.