The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 
  The road is forlorn all day, 
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, 
  And the hoof-prints vanish away. 
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,
  Expend their bloom in vain. 
Come over the hills and far with me, 
  And be my love in the rain. 

The birds have less to say for themselves 
  In the wood-world’s torn despair
Than now these numberless years the elves, 
  Although they are no less there: 
All song of the woods is crushed like some 
  Wild, easily shattered rose. 
Come, be my love in the wet woods; come,
  Where the boughs rain when it blows. 

There is the gale to urge behind 
  And bruit our singing down, 
And the shallow waters aflutter with wind 
  From which to gather your gown.    
What matter if we go clear to the west, 
  And come not through dry-shod? 
For wilding brooch shall wet your breast 
  The rain-fresh goldenrod. 

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells   
  But it seems like the sea’s return 
To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
  Before the age of the fern; 
And it seems like the time when after doubt 
  Our love came back amain.      
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout 
  And be my love in the rain.

I dreamed my Lady and I were dead 
    And dust was either heart;
Our bodies in one grave were laid, 
    Our souls went far apart, 
Hers with the saints for aye to dwell
And mine to lie and pine in Hell. 

But when my Lady looked for me 
    And found her quest in vain, 
For all that blessed company 
    She knew nothing but pain. 
She cried: “How feigned your praising is!
Your God is love, and love I miss.”

The hills whereon her tear-drops fell 
    Were white with lily-flowers.
They made the burning caves of Hell 
    As green as Eden-bowers, 
Unloosed my tongue, my fetters broke, 
“Praised be love,” I cried and woke. 

If I were but the west wind, 
   I would follow you; 
Cross a hundred hills to find 
   Your world of green and blue;

In your pine wood linger,
   Whisper to you there 
Stories old and strange, and finger
   Softly your bright hair.

Come, O Love, while the far stars whiten,
  Gathering, growing, momently; 
Thou, who art star of stars, to lighten
  One dim heart that waiteth thee. 

Speak, O Love, for the silence presses, 
   Bowing my spirit like a fear; 
Thou, whose words are as caresses, 
   Sweet, sole voice that I long to hear.  

Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
    We stood together in an open field;
    Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled, 
Sporting at east and courting full in view:—
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew, 
    Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
    Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new. 
Then as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground, 
    Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops, 
        I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
    But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops 
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
        Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep. 

I am yours as the summer air at evening is
Possessed by the scent of linden blossoms,

As the snowcap gleams with light
Lent it by the brimming moon.

Without you I'd be an unleafed tree
Blasted in a bleakness with no Spring.

Your love is the weather of my being.
What is an island without the sea?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.
    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

since feeling is first
who pays any attention 
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate 
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
                                                                                                              I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together for the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
                               it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I’m telling you about it

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

As I walked out one evening,
   Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
   Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
   I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
   ‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
   Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
   And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
   Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
   Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
   For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
   And the first love of the world.’

But all the clocks in the city
   Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
   You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
   Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
   And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
   Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
   To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
   Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
   And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
   Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
   And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
   The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
   A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
   And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
   And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
   O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
   Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
   As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
   With your crooked heart.’

It was late, late in the evening,
   The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
   And the deep river ran on.

There is a tumor in my sacroiliac joint 
and snowflakes in my coffee. 

I’m in Iowa with the cats
and you’re in Pompeii.

You send a video: lizards rushing into limestone
which remind you of being a kid in Florida. 

In Florida we memorized sonnets
while leaping around green anoles. 

I’ve forgotten the poems. 
Your black tights, even in that heat. 

Mostly that’s what I remember.
It’s okay to say it straight. 

Like: I’m scared, still,
that I might be dying. 

Pomegranates growing from Pompeiian ash, 
scandalizing propriety—

you send a picture and I do not say,
It just looks like a tree

or Another of God’s secrets 
wasted on me. 

Which part of the mind 
gets you to the soul?

I am reading St. John of the Cross,
a character you might’ve put in a poem:

In the evening of life,
we will be judged on love alone. 

Some petrified dog. Table bread,
a painted doorway. 

You’ve been with me forever.
You know all my angels.

How could I say no to you, 
taking off your earrings to kiss me?

Black clouds, lion-shaped,
White clouds, elephant-like, yonder. 
Crash! Crash! Thundering as if breaking the sky into two pieces. 
Slash! Slash! Lightening to cut the mountain top off. 
The Storm extends from sky to earth,
Youth’s vigour, love’s passion, beauty’s rapture.
Then Pearl-drops of hail – hundreds of jade-pieces,
Tok-tok-tok-tok-tok, monastery jingling bell.
Again soft slender rain.
Sh! Sh! Sh! Sh! Sh! whispering to the lover’s ear alone: 
“I love you, I love you, ever, ever, ever, ever.”

^{translated from the Korean by Younghill Kang}

If the bondage of love be a dream,
Coming out to the world, freed, is also a dream.
If laughter and weeping be dream,
The bright light of the reason is also a dream.
If the ten thousand laws, one and all, be dream,
Let me have the dream of eternal love.

꿈이라면

사랑의 束縛이 꿈이라면
出世의 解脫도 꿈입니다
웃음과 눈물이 꿈이라면
無心의 光明도 꿈입니다
一切萬法이 꿈이라면
사랑의 꿈에서 不滅을 얻겠습니다

^{translated from the Korean by Younghill Kang}

If you were a love, you would love me, but every night
   outside the window you make the sound of footsteps alone;
     without once entering you go back. Is that love?

But never once have I made footsteps outside love’s window.
Perhaps love stays in the lover alone.
Ah! ah! but if there had been no sound of footsteps,
   the dream would not have been startled awake,
      it would have continued to mount into the clouds, seeking you.

꿈 깨고서

님이면은 나를 사랑하련마는 밤마다 문밖에 와서 발자취소리만 내이고 한번도 들어오지 아니하고 도로 가니 그것이 사랑인가요 
그러나 나는 발자취나마 님의 문밖에 가본 적이 없습니다 
아마 사랑은 님에게만 있나봐요 

아아 발자취소리나 아니더면 꿈이나 아니깨었으련마는 
꿈은 님을 찾아가려고 구름을 탔었어요

^{translated from the Farsi by Haleh Liza Gafori}

Let Love,
the water of life, 
flow through our veins.

Let a Love-drunk mirror 
steeped in the wine of dawn 
translate night. 

You who pour the wine, 

put the cup of oneness in my hand     
and let me drink from it 
until I can’t imagine separation.

Love, you are the archer.
My mind is your prey. 
Carry my heart
and make my existence your bull’s-eye.

^{translated from the Farsi by Haleh Liza Gafori}

Why paint night over nightless day?
Every religion has Love,
but Love has no religion.

Love is an ocean—
no borders no shores.

Drown there and you won’t lament it.
The drowned have no regrets.