SONG TO MY BOUGAINVILLEA

 

SONG TO MY BOUGAINVILLEA

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

         And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

         And I’ll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

         Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,

         I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

         Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope, that there

         It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

         And sent’st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

         Not of itself, but thee.

Haan,

Says not me but Ben Jonson to his Celia,

You need not be so poetic, my bougainvillea.

You are already a poem to this poet,

However, not fully read yet,

not fully read yet.

Even in your spelling mistake, I find a new word,

You make me describe a dragonfly as a bird.

I won't send you a rosy wreath,

just to carry your breath,

I will send you the moon’s shred,

It will be the evidence when we get wed.

Just sign on it and send it back,

Let my nights never be black.

You will no longer be just my dream,

But my sleep, but my sleep,

I need not count the sheep,

Because I will feel your hand near,

And that's how I will sleep, dear.

And that's how I will sleep, dear.

Even if it becomes my permanent sleep,

I don't care,

I love and war, everything is fair,

Even if it's death,

Even if it's death.