2 min read
Слушать(AI)The Kiss
The snow is white on wood and wold,
The wind is in the firs,
So dead my heart is with the cold,
No pulse within it stirs,
Even to see your face, my dear,
Your face that was my sun;
There is no spring this bitter year,
And summer's dreams are done.
The snakes that lie about my
Are in their wintry sleep;
Their fangs no more deal sting and smart,
No more they curl and creep.
Love with the summer ceased to be;
The frost is firm and fast.
God keep the summer far from me,
And let the snakes' sleep last!
Touch of your hand could not
To waken them once more;
Nor could the sunshine of your eyesA ruined spring restore.
But ah-your lips!
You know the rest:
The snows are summer rain,
My eyes are wet, and in my
The snakes' fangs meet again.
Edith Nesbit
Edith Nesbit (married name Edith Bland; 15 August 1858 – 4 May 1924) was an English author and poet; she published her books for children under
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
Lullaby
EP, sleep, my treasure, The long day's pleasure Has tired the birds, to their nests they creep; The garden still is Alight with lilies, But all the daisies are fast asleep Sleep, sleep, my darling, Dawn wakes the starling, The sparr...
Questions
What do the roses do, mother, Now that the summer's done They lie in the bed that is hung with And dream about the sun
The Offering
What will you give me for this heart of mine, No heart of gold, and yet my dearest treasure It has its graces, it can ache and pine, And beat true time to your sweet voice's measure;
England
Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom, Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam, Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom, Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home<br...
