Читать книгу The Blue Poetry Book - Lang Andrew, May Kendall - Страница 40

Ah! what avails the sceptred race,

Ah! what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.