 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
165
THEY SAY
(To G.)
They say that beauty withers;
They tell me flowers die;
That all the world's unreal,
And dreams, like days, go by:
They say that joy is mortal,
And nothing here is sure:
They all are lies, for, in your eyes,
I find that these endure.
They tell me flowers die;
That all the world's unreal,
And dreams, like days, go by:
They say that joy is mortal,
And nothing here is sure:
They all are lies, for, in your eyes,
I find that these endure.
They tell me glory passes,
That life is but a breath;
That happiness goes like the rose,
And love is slain of death:
They say that hope shall perish,
That nothing shall arrive:
I scorn the whole, for, in your soul,
I see how these survive.
That life is but a breath;
That happiness goes like the rose,
And love is slain of death:
They say that hope shall perish,
That nothing shall arrive:
I scorn the whole, for, in your soul,
I see how these survive.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |