So many men
and so many yesterdays and
many flowers and seventeen
softly-born meadows and
again,
what were we to
do with ourselves
and
again, again.
I was so silently
contented, and not so.
(I'll never be
able to convey
how much I'm sorry
that this is true).
How? I don't know,
and I shouldn't hope
but I do hope
that you will
be sometime.
Indeed, there's some faith.
Have faith and
have
faith,
You will fly away.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment