Accept, dear girl, this little token, And if between the lines you seek, You’ll find the love I’ve often spoken The love my dying lips shall speak. Our little ones are making merry O’er am’rous ditties rhymed in jest, But in these words (though awkward very) The genuine article’s expressed.
Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory — Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed; And so thy thoughts when thou are gone, Love itself shall slumber on. ~ Percy Bysshe
Marriage is not a house or even a tent it is before that, and colder: the edge of the forest, the edge of the desert the unpainted stairs at the back where we squat outside, eating popcorn the edge of the receding glacier where painfully and with wonder at having
So many poetry anthologies feel proud for going back to the 1800s or 1600s. This compilation, The Ink Dark Moon – Love Poems by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu translated by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani, reminds us that love and passion are completely timeless. It features the stunning
I know a sweet suburban girl, She’s witty, bright and brief; With dimples in her cheeks; and pearl In rubies set, for teeth. Beneath her glossy raven hair There beams the hazel eye, Bright as the star of evening there Where the yellow sunbeams die. Her breath is like a
Hey, rose, just born Twin to a thorn; Was’t so with you, O Love and Scorn? Sweet eyes that smiled, Now wet and wild: O Eye and Tear- mother and child. Well: Love and Pain Be kinfolks twain; Yet would, Oh would I could Love again. ~ Sidney Lanier (1842-1881)
The beauty and challenge of Japanese poetry, for those of us who do not read Japanese, is that we are reliant on the translator to accurately portray those beautiful words and sounds in a way which makes sense in our own language. Sometimes this can be incredibly challenging. The exact
Love seeketh not itself to please, Nor for itself hath any care; But for another gives its ease, And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair. So sang a little Clod of Clay, Trodden with the cattle’s feet; But a Pebble of the brook, Warbled out these metres meet: Love seeketh