Читать книгу Herbs and Apples - Whitney Helen Hay - Страница 12

The Indian Summer and Love have fled,

Oh, red, red lips like a crimson rose,

Oh, slender hands with the tips of red,

You are lost in the land of Nobody-knows.

The sweet breeze blows but it comes not back,

The water flows in a silver stream,

But never returns on its moon-white track,

They are gone, past recall, like a lovely dream.

Ah, crimson lips like a tilted flower,

Where sweetest honey awaits the bee;

Come back, come back for a single hour,

Dear Love, my Summer, come back to me.