I have often heard that the ancient Chinese had no concept of romantic love. Here is a an example to the contrary, in this poem on grief over a lost wife. It was written by poet Mei Yao Ch’en (1002-1060).
Translated by Kenneth Rexroth.
Who says that the dead do not think of us?
Whenever I travel, she goes with me.
She was uneasy when I was on a journey.
She always wanted to accompany me.
While I dream, everything is as it used to be.
When I wake up, I am stabbed with sorrow.
The living are often parted and never meet again.
The dead are together as pure souls.