Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)

A Burying

I see the twelve fair months go by
Bearing a coffin shoulder-high.
What, laughing? Pretty pall-bearers,
Pitiless of the buried years,
Have ye never a tear to shed
Nor sigh to drop for the newly-dead,
Nor marble grief to mark his grave?--
No, none of these; but see, we have
Green seed to mingle with his earth.--
What, is not this a burying?---- Nay, a birth.

1. Sonnets. 11. A few of us who faltered as we fared
2. For Joan
3. A Christening
4. Spring-Dawn
5. Sonnets. 5. When all is said, we can but turn our eyes

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1448

Последние стихотворения

To English version