tisdag 1 maj 2012


 O month when they who love must love and wed!
 Were one to go to worlds where May is naught,
 And seek to tell the memories he had brought
 From earth of thee, what were most fitly said?
 I know not if the rosy showers shed
 From apple-boughs, or if the soft green wrought
 In fields, or if the robin's call be fraught
 The most with thy delight. Perhaps they read
 Thee best who in the ancient time did say
 Thou wert the sacred month unto the old:
 No blossom blooms upon thy brightest day
 So subtly sweet as memories which unfold
 In aged hearts which in thy sunshine lie,
 To sun themselves once more before they die.
From "A Calendar of Sonnets" by Helen Hunt Jackson

Inga kommentarer:

Skicka en kommentar