Your scent is in the room.

Swiftly it overwhelms and conquers me!

Jasmine, night jasmine, perfect

of perfume,

Heavy with dew before the

dawn of day!

Your face was in the mirror. I could see

You smile and vanish suddenly away,

Leaving behind the vestige of a tear.

Sad suffering face, from parting

grown so dear!


Night jasmine cannot bloom

in this cold place;

Without the street is wet

and weird with snow;

The cold nude trees are

tossing to and fro;


Too stormy is the night for your fond face;

For your low voice too loud

the wind’s mad roar.

But oh, your scent is

here-jasmines that grow

Luxuriant, clustered round

your cottage door!

By Claude McKay