 | Poems with Fables in Prose |  |
28
10: A SONG
Her, my own sad love divine,
Did I pierce as with a knife,
Stabbed with words that seemed not mine
Her more dear to me than life.
Did I pierce as with a knife,
Stabbed with words that seemed not mine
Her more dear to me than life.
And she raised, she raised her head,
Slow that smile, pale to the brow:
“Lovely songs when I am dead
You will make for me; but how
Shall I hear them then?” she said,
“Make them now, O make them now!”
Slow that smile, pale to the brow:
“Lovely songs when I am dead
You will make for me; but how
Shall I hear them then?” she said,
“Make them now, O make them now!”
| Poems with Fables in Prose | |