You sent me a sprig of mignonette,
Cool-coloured, quiet, and it was wet
With green sea-spray, and the salt and the sweet
Mingled to a fragrance that was weary and discreet
As a harp played softly in a great room at sunset.

You said: ``My sober mignonette
Will brighten your room and you will not forget.''

But I have pressed your flower and laid it away
In a letter, a tied with a ribbon knot.
I have not forgot.
But there is a passion-flower in my vase
Standing above a close-cleared space
In the midst of a jumble of papers and books.

The passion-flower holds my eyes,
And the light-under-light of it's blue and purple dyes 
Is a hot surprise.
How can I keep my looks
From the passion-flower leaning sharply over the
	books?
When one has seen
The difficult magnificence of a queen
On one's table,
Is one able
To observe any colour in a mignonette?
I will not think of sunset, I crave the dawn,
With its rose-red light on the wings of a swan,
And a queen pacing slowly through the Parthenon,
Her dress a stare of purple between pillars of stone

Ten years is nothing,
Yet I do not remember
What happened before.

Morning flings shadows,
But midday is shadowless.
So I have found it.

I have no flowers,
Yet I give you these roses.
Humor my pretence.

Have I satisfied?
Who can be sure of himself.
Touch me with your love.

Knowing my weakness,
Spread your hands above my head.
See only your hands.

Watching you daily,
I dare not think what I see.
It is better so.

Since I am only
What you may consider me,
Have merciful thoughts.

Shield me from myself.
At times I have wounded you.
I do not forget.

Take what I give you.
Foolishness is in my words,
But not in my heart.

Cease urging your ears,
My speach has little for them.
Hearken otherwise.

You wrong me, saying:
One death will not kill us both.
Your veins hold my sap.

Keep in remembrance:
Peonies do not blossom
Till Spring is over.

You prefer Spring? Why?
A season's length of hours --
Incalculable.

Days and days -- what then?
Is not recurrence a smile
On the face of age?

Now, in the pale dawn,
How strange to consider time.
What is it to us?

Grains of rice counted --
Can any one so spend life?
Be spacious and wise.

The bowl is still full.
We will not be niggardly.
Plunge in both your hands.

I have known terror.
I swear to know it no more,
Each day a new dawn.

Youth is incautious.
Wisdom learns to tread softly,
Valuing moments.

Cherish what is,
The wise man sees it depart
Without emotion.

Time is rhetoric.
A mad logician's plaything.
O pitiful world!

Listen to the wind;
Man has not learnt to measure
The wind of his thoughts.

Blowing assunder,
Yet we shall be as the air
Still undivided.

Sleep until day-spring.
With morning we start again,
Another ten years.

Again the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.

Have I hurt you?
You look at me with pale eyes,
But these are my tears.

Morning and evening --
Yet for us once long ago
Was no division.

I hear many words.
Set an hour when I may come
Or remain silent.

In the ghostly dawn
I write new words for your ears --
Even now you sleep.

This then is morning.
Have you no comfort for me
Cold-coloured flowers?

My eyes are weary
Following you everywhere.
Short, oh short, the days!

When the flower falls
The leaf is no more cherished.
Every day I fear.

Even when you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.

Laugh -- it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch with grieved eyes.

Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.

As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.

Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals --
How am I worthy?

Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you so brave?

Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.

Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.

Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its coloured leaves --
But before they turn?

Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?

Love is a game -- yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.

When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!

Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labour,
I hear morning crows.

A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see clearly?

Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait, perhaps?

Staying in my room,
I thought of the new Spring leaves.
That day was happy.

Your voice is like bells over roofs at dawn
When a bird flies
And the sky changes to a fresher colour.

Speak, speak, Beloved.
Say little things
For my ears to catch
And run with them to my heart.

Last night, at sunset,
The foxgloves were like tall altar candles.
Could I have lifted you to the roof of the greenhouse,
	my Dear,
I should have understood their burning.

I've a pocketful of emptiness for you, my Dear.
I've a hear like a loaf was baked yesteryear,
I've a mind like ashes spilt a week ago,
I've a hand liek a rusty, cracked corkscrew.

Can you flourish on nothing and find it good?
Can you make petrifaction do for food?
Can you warm yourself at ashes on a stone?
Can you give my hand the cunning which has gone?

If you can, I will go and lay me down
And kiss the edge of your purple gown.
I will rise and walk with the sun on my head.
Will you walk with me, will you follow the dead?