Читать книгу Herbs and Apples - Whitney Helen Hay - Страница 11

You and you only!—By the Western gate

That fronts the falling sun I shade my face

And watch for you. As one who's lost the race

Tries to demand no further gift from Fate

Lest he be hurled more low, so I, who wait

And want you, ask no pity of your grace

On my defeat, I only long to trace

My lost heart; come to me, my need is great.

I see the young men with their crystal eyes,

They stand about my door, their hearts, I know

Are breaking in the poppies that they bring.

I cannot love them for I am not wise;

Ah, come, or else forever let me go,

I grow so tired with waiting in the Spring.