During a warm evening,
The grass visible, somewhere behind tall buildings, the sun,
In the privacy of a park bench in a small park,
I sit in languid thought; I think sweetly upon
You, and everything associated with you,
Musing sweetly upon those things, too.
They are sweet, and all my poem brings
Is sweet because of you; you make sweet these things.
There are times when I don’t know what to write—
I prefer to sleep in the middle of the night,
But if you wake me, I snap on the light,
And take up my trembling pen
And write to you, as if our love were new, again.
I prefer to drowse in the middle of the day,
But if you come into my thoughts,
I say hello to you, as if you hadn’t gone away,
As if you were smiling there in all your beauty,
Listening to exactly what I had to say.
I prefer, in winter, the crystalline sleep,
When the frozen, and the freezing, find it difficult to weep,
But if, by the fire, in anguish, you cry
Dimly in my thoughts, in my thoughts I comply,
And by candlelight write a rhyme and then why.
But during warm evenings,
When I sit in the park,
Where we used to sit until it got dark,
Poems are easy; you arrange the things
As if you were writing the things for me,
In love and for love. The poem sings,
And sings with alacrity.
A rising moon brings poems and love.
There it is. Do you see it, love?