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Philip Bourke Marston (Филип Берк Марстон)


After Summer


We'll not weep for summer over,--
No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,--
Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he's lying
With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,--
Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished
In his wrath,--
And the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder,
Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours,--
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness,
Saying, "See
These are yours, in place of gladness,--
Gifts from me"?

Nay, the rest that will be ours
Is supreme,--
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.



Philip Bourke Marston's other poems:
  1. Roses and the Nightingale
  2. Стихи в память об Артуре О’ШонессиIn Memory of Arthur O’Shaughnessy
  3. Замок в ИспанииA Castle in Spain
  4. Два мотиваThe Two Burdens


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