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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:
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