Джон Китс (John Keats)

* * *

Hither hither, love—
‘Tis a shady mead—
Hither, hither, love!
Let us feed and feed!

Hither, hither, sweet—
‘Tis a cowslip bed—
Hither, hither, sweet!
‘Tis with dew bespread!

Hither, hither, dear
By the breath of life,
Hither, hither, dear!—
Be the summer’s wife!

Though one moment’s pleasure
In one moment flies—
Though the passion’s treasure
In one moment dies;—

Yet it has not passed—
Think how near, how near!—
And while it doth last,
Think how dear, how dear!

Hither, hither, hither
Love its boon has sent—
If I die and wither
I shall die content!

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