Euphrasy
The large untidy February skies—
Some cheerful starlings screeling on a tree—
West wind and low-shot sunlight in my eyes—
Is this decline for me?
The feel of winter finishing once more—
Sense of the present as a tale half told—
The land of life to look at and explore—
Is this, then, to grow old?
Some cheerful starlings screeling on a tree—
West wind and low-shot sunlight in my eyes—
Is this decline for me?
The feel of winter finishing once more—
Sense of the present as a tale half told—
The land of life to look at and explore—
Is this, then, to grow old?
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.