To One Unnamed

I
A faint phoenix-tail gauze, fragrant and doubled,
Lines your green canopy, closed for the night. . .
Will your shy face peer round a moon-shaped fan,
And your voice be heard hushing the rattle of my carriage?
It is quiet and quiet where your gold lamp dies,
How far can a pomegranate-blossom whisper?
. . . I will tether my horse to a river willow
And wait for the will of the southwest wind.

II
There are many curtains in your care-free house,
Where rapture lasts the whole night long.
. . . What are the lives of angels but dreams
If they take no lovers into their rooms?
. . . Storms are ravishing the nut-horns,
Moon-dew sweetening cinnamon-leaves —
I know well enough naught can come of this union,
Yet how it serves to ease my heart!