A DESERT my love can offer the shade of your hair
The memory of you insists, knocking at the door
(If the heart is a door). It is hard to wantmore
Of time; to wish to be alone
We were none of us given to be
What more can a heart do (if the heart lives right
Next-door a too inquisitive mind) but doubt
And fasten close the pain? The softened, open mouth
Hate can never know—
In tears is a consecration of love.
These cups are too shallow for thought—
Do you think they’ll found
For us forms more truly shaped, less hallowed
Before I sell and no longer sound
Love’s wants, myself grow to shadow
These must be wraiths
These where Man, you say,
We’ve yet to raise.
The wreath of words is not your own.
Bare thought is given to grey
The dog is collared in gold—
O how your bark quickens my heart.
In the ruined city
A trembling heart is treasure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem