Sometimes when you start to ramble
or rather when you feel you are starting to ramble
you will say Well, now I’m rambling
though I don’t think you ever are.
And if you ever are I don’t really care.
And not just because I and everyone really 
at times falls into our own unspooling
—which really I think is a beautiful softness
of being human, trying to show someone else
the color of all our threads, wanting another to know 
everything in us we are trying to show them—
but in the specific, 
in the specific of you
here in this car that you are driving
and in which I am sitting beside you
with regards to you 
and your specific mouth
parting to give way
to the specific sweetness that is
the water of your voice 
tumbling forth—like I said 
I don’t ever really mind
how much more 
you might keep speaking
as it simply means 
I get to hear you 
speak for longer. 
What was a stream 
now a river.

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?

They’re both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.

Since they’d never met before, they’re sure
that there’d been nothing between them.
But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways—
perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?

I want to ask them
if they don’t remember—
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?
a curt “wrong number” caught in the receiver?—
but I know the answer.
No, they don’t remember.

They’d be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.

Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn’t read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhood’s thicket?

There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.

Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.

Lovers, forget your love,
     And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
     And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil
     Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
     Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,
     He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
     To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,
     Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
     And little of love could know.

But he sighed upon the sill,
     He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
     Who lay that night awake.

Perchance he half prevailed
     To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
     And warm stove-window light.

But the flower leaned aside
     And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
     A hundred miles away.

I almost stopped believing in the ocean.
Imagine that. I almost stopped believing
in the music of such massive natural splendor.
I had lost sight of it, lost sight of hope
because innocent people were killed
by people in masks, hiding their faces,
their shame parading as providence,
their weakness posing as policy.
But then, I remembered the tides.
I was restored by the courage of poets
whose songs sounded like ocean waves
guided by the moon. Even now, there is music.
Children laughing on the swings, a student
learning the saxophone, a woman reading
her rough draft by the lake, a father whistling
a love song in his native language.
Courage is from the Latin word  cor,
which means heart, which means we are a heart of poets.
As in, take courage, take heart. As in, the widow
was grateful for your encouragement, your giving heart.
As in, the heart of your convictions.
What I mean is: we are made of love
and therefore larger than their terror.
As a great poet said, they can cut back all of the flowers,
but they cannot hold back spring.
We are a massive natural splendor, too.
In the end, all we are is love and love and love.
In the end, the ocean and the music might save us.
Meet me at the beach. Bring your light.
Bring your songs. I’ll wait for you.

I do not know the ocean’s song, 
    Or what the brooklets say; 
At eve I sit and listen long, 
    I cannot learn their lay. 
But as I linger by the sea, 
    And that sweet song comes unto me, 
It seems, my love, it sings of thee.

I do not know why poppies grow, 
    Amid the wheat and rye, 
The lilies bloom as white as snow, 
    I cannot tell you why. 
But all the flowers of the spring, 
    The bees that hum, the birds that sing, 
A thought of you they seem to bring.

I cannot tell why silvery Mars, 
    Moves through the heav’ns at night; 
I cannot tell you why the stars, 
    Adorn the vault with light. 
But what sublimity I see, 
    Upon the mount, the hill, the lea, 
It brings, my love, a thought of thee.

I do not know what in your eyes, 
    That caused my heart to glow, 
And why my spirit longs and cries, 
    I vow, I do not know. 
But when you first came in my sight, 
    My slumbering soul awoke in light, 
And since the day I’ve known no night.

                      I.

The merry morn is waking
    In all its rosy light, 
While fogs and dreams are taking
    Flight, with the drowsy night;
Soft eyelashes and roses
    Open with hope new-born, 
And everything discloses
    The happy touch of morn.

And everything is singing 
    A morning hymn to love,
Flowers and tendrils springing 
    To greet the trees above;
The streams speak to the fountains, 
    The breezes to the pines,
The clouds unto the mountains, 
    The grapes unto the vines.

One throbbing pulse is shaking
    All Nature’s mighty frame,— 
The child its toys retaking,
    The ember’d grate its flame; 
Love, and folly, and madness,
    Petty aims, and grand, 
And fame, and hope, and gladness—
    To each one what he plann’d.

Still, whether loving or sighing,
    In the bridal garb or pall, 
We’re only drifting, flying
    To the final goal of all: 
We all seek what is ours,—
    A lad the joys of youth, 
A bee the daintiest flowers,
    Whilst I am seeking truth!

                      II.

O Truth! with deep devotion 
    I’ve plunged in depths profound,
And sought thee in the ocean 
    Where’er the plummets sound;
Tho’ fogs and mists may bind thee, 
    And shoals and sand-banks mock,
We’re sure at last to find thee, 
    As firm, as hard as rock!

O Truth! broad-breasted river
    Which never can be dry,
Where all may bathe for ever,
    And swim, or sink and die;
A lamp the great God places
    Near all our mortal things,
A light that always graces
    The thoughts a pure mind brings!

A gnarled tree in flower,
    Where strength and beauty blend,
Which each man, to his power,
    Shall either break or bend;
’Midwide-spread branches flinging
    Their shade, when day has sunk,
Some to the branches clinging,
    And others to the trunk.

A hill from which all floweth,
    A path which all have trod,
A gulf to which all goeth—
    The handiwork of God!
A star we’re still blaspheming, 
    Altho’, on nearer view,
After wild doubts and dreaming, 
    We’ll know its ray was true.

                      III.

O Earth! lit up with splendor
    At sunset and sunrise,
With gorgeous hues yet tender
    To suit our mortal eyes!
Shores where waves are dying!
    Woods where soft winds play!
O vast horizon! lying
    Round all things far away,

O glorious azure veiling 
    The gulf, till all is still;
Where idly floating, sailing 
    Where’er the breezes will,
I ’mid the reeds conceal me,
    And list with all my soul
To what the waves reveal me 
    In their majestic roll!

O glorious azure smiling 
    On all, from skies above,
Each wearied soul beguiling
    To dreams and thoughts of love;
And, while we’re dreaming, seeking
    To read the mystic spell,
That murmuring winds are speaking,
    That starry pages tell.

O mighty ocean wreathing,
    And girdling all the earth!
Stars which the Master’s breathing
    Call’d to their fiery birth!
Flowers whose hidden meaning
    We crush beneath our feet,
Tho’ God, perchance, is gleaning
    Honey from every sweet!

O valleys rich in May-time!
    O woodland shades and plains!
Where village towers in play-time
    Ring out their merry strains;
Hillocks and mountains bearing
    The vast skies on your breasts!
Bright stars a gay smile wearing
    Amid your gloomy nests!—

You are but one book’s pages 
    Where all may read and learn:
Where poets and where sages 
    May see what most they yearn:
Yet every thought unfurl’d there 
    Requires a mystic rod,
Tho’ some eyes see a world there, 
    And some souls find a God.

A Book which is completed 
    By virtuous deeds alone;
Where youthful dreams are greeted 
    By feelings still unknown;
Where those whom age has smitten 
    With wrinkled brows yet vast,
Have in the margin written 
    “Behold us come at last!”

A holy book concealing
    All deeds which God has done;
A thousand names revealing
    And yet revealing one—
A name that always leavens
    Whate’er we hold of worth,
But one name in the heavens,
    But one name on the earth.

A sure book, never failing,
    For all may drink its balm,
Tho’ midnight seers are paling
    Before they find its charm;
Pythagoras nearly guess’d it,
    And Moses knew it well,
And all have loved and bless’d it,
When once they learn’d the spell.

Let us go back together to the hills. 
Weary am I of palaces and courts, 
Weary of words disloyal to my thoughts,—
Come, my belovèd, let us to the hills.

Let us go back together to the land, 
And wander hand in hand upon the heights;
Kings have we seen, and manifold delights,—
Oh, my beloved, let us to the land!

Lone and unshackled, let us to the road 
Which holds enchantment round each hiddenbend, 
Our course uncompassed and our whim its end, 
Our feet once more, belovèd, to the road!

^{translated from the Korean by Younghill Kang}

Others would think of their loves.

My love I would forget.

One thinks and considers, to forget.

One thinks and looks, when it is scarcely forgotten.

When wanting to forget, it was thinking,

When thinking, it could not be forgotten.

If I should not think, nor not forget - let be, let be.

Not thinking, not forgetting - let be, let be.

But that too is impossible.

I think, I think of the beloved only, incessantly. What shall I do?

If my purpose were but to forget!

Forgetting is not an unheard of thing.

Only it would be death and sleeping.

Impossible, while there is the beloved.

Ah! ah! the forgetting - that is the more desolate!

나는 잊고저

남들은 님을 생각한다지만 
나는 님을 잊고자 하여요 
잊고자 할수록 생각히기로 
행여 잊힐가 하고 생각하여 보았습니다

잊으려면 생각히고 
생각하면 잊히지 아니하니 
잊지도 말고 생각도 말아 볼까요 
잊든지 생각든지 내버려두어 볼까요 
그러나 그리도 아니 되고 
끊임없는 생각 생각에 임뿐인데 어찌하여요

구태여 잊으려면 
잊을 수가 없는 것은 아니지만 
잠과 죽음뿐이기로 
임 두고는 못하여요

아아 잊히지 않는 생각보다 
잊고자 하는 그것이 더욱 괴롭습니다

^{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