Francis Thompson (Фрэнсис Томпсон)

To Olivia

I fear to love thee, Sweet, because
Love's the ambassador of loss;
White flake of childhood, clinging so
To my soiled raiment, thy shy snow
At tenderest touch will shrink and go.
Love me not, delightful child.
My heart, by many snares beguiled,
Has grown timorous and wild.
It would fear thee not at all,
Wert thou not so harmless-small.
Because thy arrows, not yet dire,
Are still unbarbed with destined fire,
I fear thee more than hadst thou stood
Full-panoplied in womanhood. 

1. To a Poet Breaking Silence
2. Gilded Gold
3. St. Monica
4. Unto This Last
5. To the Sinking Sun

Распечатать (Print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1376

Последние стихотворения

To English version