Tumult like fire within my chest does rise,
Here hiding heaving swells of waters vast,
O'erwhelming that which these consumes likewise;
Up above I shall be caught in this blast,
Sylph soaring across this unceasing sea,
Hills, dales, and my garden of rue and thyme.
And arid land that chaps in wind does see
Lost desert as oriental pearl time
Tiptoes past men with scanty drops of rain.
Lose it, lose it, and lose till none is to
E'ermore be lost, and that which fell again
Arrives at Ardor alight being Rue:
Right now no call expected comes along,
Not bringing me to be there where I long.
PoemWiki 评分
暂无评论 写评论