无题

    Untitled Poem
    
    
    So hard for us to meet,
    Harder to leave.
    The spring breeze is feeble.
    And the flowers are withering away,
    Just as the silkworm spins silk
    Until it dies,
    So the candle cannot dry its tears
    Until the last drop is shed.
    And so with me:
    I will love you
    To my last day.
    I worry that your black hair
    May change, some morning,
    Seen in your mirror,
    Night after night,
    You must read your love poems for me
    In cold, cold moonlight.
    But oh, you live so near, so near,
    And a letter would be so dear , so dear!