Читать книгу The House of the Trees & Other Poems - A. Ethelwyn Wetherald - Страница 6

LEAVE me Hope when I am old,

Strip my joys from me,

Let November to the cold

Bare each leafy tree;

Chill my lover, dull my friend,

Only, while I grope

To the dark the silent end,

Leave me Hope!

Blight my bloom when I am old,

Bid my sunlight cease;

If it need be from my hold

Take the hand of Peace.

Leave no springtime memory,

But upon the slope

Of the days that are to be,

Leave me Hope!