I loved thee; and perchance until this moment
Within my breast is smouldering still the fire!
Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,
Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!

I loved thee with a silent desperation--
Now timid, now with jealousy brought low,
I loved devoutly,--with such deep devotion--
Ah may God grant another love thee so!


Another Translation:

I loved you once: perhaps that love has yet
To die down thoroughly within my soul;
But let it not dismay you any longer;

I love the Tsarskoselsky Gardens
Late in the fall when, in soft haze
Enfolded, as in sleep's embrace
They lie... The cold's breath slowly hardens,
And on the dull glass of the lake,
Clad in that same fine haze, white-winged
And strangely languid visions linger
And seem bemused, but half-awake.

The skies are grey, by not a star lit...
The evening's shadows onward press
And softly lick the steps dark scarlet
Of Catherine's lofty palaces.
Then dark the gardens grow and dreamy,
The stars appear and turn a dome,

I love the Forest;--I could dwell among
That silent people, till my thoughts up--grew
In nobly--ordered form, as to my view
Rose the succession of that lofty throng:--
The mellow footstep on a ground of leaves
Formed by the slow decay of nume'rous years,--
The couch of moss, whose growth alone appears,
Beneath the fir's inhospitable eaves,--
The chirp and flutter of some single bird,--
The rustle in the brake,--what precious store
Of joys have these on Poets' hearts conferred?
And then at times to send one's own voice out,

I love sensual women and not passionate ones. A passionate woman closes her eyes, moans and shouts and the enjoyment of a passionate woman is blind.

I love my sweet Armenia's word which is filled with the taste of sun,
I love our old lyre's melody from its mournful and weeping strings,
The vivacious fragrance of the blood-like flowers and the roses,
I love as well the graceful and agile dance of Nayirian girls.
I love as well our gloomy sky, our pure waters, luminous lake,
The summer's sun and the winter's sublime wind with a dragon's voice,
Also the black, unwelcoming walls of the huts lost in the dark,
And I love the thousand-year stone of the ancient cities as well.

I should not lie to myself anymore
I should not live in denial anymore
I should not mislead myself anymore

The truth is…
I seriously love my Queen G!
The truth is…
I deeply love my Queen G!
The truth is…
I really love my Queen G!

So I should come clean
And shout…
I love my Queen G! ! !

www.frederickyamusangie.org.uk

I LOVE my love for she is like a garden in the dawn,
Pale, yet pink-flushed, with softly waking eyes,
And primrose hair that brightens to gold skies,
And petalled lips for dew to linger on.

I love my love for she is like the mirror of the moon,
(A sweet, small moon but newly come to birth)
So full of heaven is she, so close to earth,
So versed in holy spell and magic rune.

I love my love. O words that be too feeble and too few!
I love my love!--as April on the hill
Brings back earth's morning with each daffodil,

I love my life, but not too well
To give it to thee like a flower,
So it may pleasure thee to dwell
Deep in its perfume but an hour.
I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well
To sing it note by note away,
So to thy soul the song may tell
The beauty of the desolate day.
I love my life, but not too well.

I love my life, but not too well
To cast it like a cloak on thine,
Against the storms that sound and swell
Between thy lonely heart and mine.
I love my life, but not too well.

I love all beauteous things,
I seek and adore them;
God hath no better praise,
And man in his hasty days
Is honoured for them.

I too will something make
And joy in the making!
Altho' tomorrow it seem'
Like the empty words of a dream
Remembered, on waking.

I Love in old days Clara d'Ellébeuse,
The school-girl of old boarding-schools,
Who, on warm evenings, sat beneath the limes,
Reading the magazines of olden times.

I love but her. Upon my heart is streaming
The blue light of her white breast.
Where is she now? Where was this happy nest?
Branches peered into the room where she was dreaming.

It may be possible she is not dead.
Perhaps we both were dead behind those walls.
In the great court-yard withered leaves were shed
In the cold wind of very olden falls.