Читать книгу Gypsy Verses - Whitney Helen Hay - Страница 8

Leave the Vine, Ah Love, and the wreath of myrtle,

Leave the Song, to die, on the lips of laughter,

Come, for love is faint with the choric measure,

Weary of waiting.

Down the sky in lines of pellucid amber

Blows the hair of her whom the gods have treasured,

Fair, more fair is mine in the ring of maidens,

Mine for the taking.