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* * * THINE am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Every pulse along my veins, Every roving fancy. To thy bosom lay my heart, There, to throb and languish: Tho’ despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish. Take away these rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure! Turn away thine eyes of love, Lest I die with pleasure! What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning! Love’s the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning. Robert Burns's other poems: ![]() Количество обращений к стихотворению: 678 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |