Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 23

     On a day, alack the day!

     Love, whose month is ever May,

     Spied a blossom passing fair

     Playing in the wanton air:

     Through the velvet leaves the wind

     All unseen 'gan passage find;

     That the lover, sick to death,

     Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

     Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;

     Air, would I might triumph so!

     But, alack, my hand is sworn

     Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:

     Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;

     Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.

     Do not call it sin in me

     That I am forsworn for thee:

     Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear

     Juno but an Ethiope were,

     And deny himself for Jove,

     Turning mortal for thy love.