1 min read
Слушать(AI)Let It Be Forgotten
Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.
If anyone asks, say it was
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed
In a long-forgotten snow.
Sara Teasdale
Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born Sarah Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri, and use
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Blue Squills
How many million Aprils Before I ever How white a cherry bough could be, A bed of squills, how blue
Doubt
My soul lives in my body's house, And you have both the house and her —But sometimes she is less your own Than a wild, gay adventurer; A restless and an eager wraith, How can I tell what she will do —Oh,
The Song Maker
I made a hundred little songs That told the joy and pain of love, And sang them blithely, tho' I knew No whit thereof I was a weaver deaf and blind; A miracle was wrought for me,
The Kiss
I hoped that he would love me, And he has kissed my mouth, But I am like a stricken bird That cannot reach the south For though I know he loves me,
