Читать книгу Oxford Poetry 1917-1921 - Various Authors - Страница 30
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Dulled is the azure of the skies.
Can aught but woe my woes beget?
My inmost self in anguish cries
"I love my Love"—My Love!—and yet
I cannot as a lover say
"I love my Love," because I know
I am not worthy. Still I may
Win in the end the right to show
My Love what is my heart's desire.
For more than this I may not hope,
To naught beyond can I aspire.
Alone, in secret, I must grope
My way and be content to see
The beauty of my star above,
For never will my Love love me
Though I so truly love my Love.
