Читать книгу Poems - French Nora May - Страница 3

IT was a joy whose stem I did not break —

A little thing I passed with crowded hands,

And gave a backward look for beauty’s sake.

Of all I pulled and wove and flung aside,

Was any hue preferred above the rest?

I only know they pleased me well, and died.

But this – it lives distinct in Memory’s sight,

A little thing, incurving like a pearl.

I think its heart had never seen the light.