Читать книгу Gloucestershire Friends: Poems From a German Prison Camp - F. W. Harvey - Страница 5

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Oh where’s the use to write?

What can I tell you, dear?

Just that I want you so

Who are not near.

Just that I miss the lamp whose blessèd light

Was God’s own moon to shine upon my night,

And newly mourn each new day’s lost delight:

Just—oh, it will not ease my pain—

That I am lonely

Until I see you once again,

You—you only.