Maeby

Even a breeze may fail me
When I desire it.
Little I should grieve,
If only, sure of its coming,
I could await even a breeze.

The flowers of the plum,
Were covered with fallen snow
Which I wrapped up
But when I tried to have you see
It was melting in my hands.

The sheaves of my love-thoughts
Would fill seven carts—
Carts huge and heavy-wheeled.
Such a burden I bear
Of my own choice.

I thought there could be
No more love left anywhere.
Whence then is come this love,
That has caught me now
And holds me in its grasp ?