Читать книгу Poems - French Nora May - Страница 1

LIFE said: “My house is thine with all its store;

Behold, I open shining ways to thee —

Of every inner portal make thee free:

O child, I may not bar the outer door.

Go from me if thou wilt, to come no more;

But all thy pain is mine, thy flesh of me;

And must I hear thee, faint and woefully,

Call on me from the darkness and implore?”

Nay, mother, for I follow at thy will.

But oftentimes thy voice is sharp to hear,

Thy trailing fragrance heavy on the breath;

Always the outer hall is very still,

And on my face a pleasant wind and clear

Blows straitly from the narrow gate of Death.