The Color of Roses

"To the woman I love... my wife"

I have carried your love in my lashes as a dream,
fearing for it from any doubtful closing of the eyes,
and dreading lest there visit it a phantom
out of the past, heavy-laden with sins.
No sin has ever fluttered on my lashes —
as though your love were of the purity of the Cross...

Gently, now... spring itself has no tenderer face,
nothing sweeter than your call, my love.
When you find in my eyes a sorrow,
and in my face the yellowings of sunset,
your dew-moist palm wipes the weariness away,
and light floods over my pallor...

Gently, now... what color, what fragrance
dawns when you pass along my paths!
The very wasteland almost turns green in my imagining,
grows moist with radiance and with perfumes —
as though you alone, among all the young women, were
a sweet love, and a nightingale's nest.