It is going to snow in a few days. I remember
This time last year. My heart, O how it bled!
Had I been asked: 'What ails thee?' I should have said:
'Nothing. Leave me alone. It is December.'
Last night the cricket sang when all was still.
I cannot tell you what he sang about.
His singing made the darkness thicker still.
The sad flame of my candle lengthened out.
You come when the sun sinks low,
accompanied by the hum of bees.
You come laughing with your red mouth
fierce, like the flowers of pomegranates.
Do not console me. I should not have heard.
If dreams, which were the only wealth I wist,
Leave my dark threshold whereon squats the mist,
I shall be ready, and shall speak no word.
A small house with a dog in front ...
O my love! Tonight, this rose is wet.
In the big park, by the rusty gate,
I walk with you in a timeless dream.