« IndietroContinua »
I still shall love the spring when I am old.
Though every April night is a green frame
Beauty, the dream that I have dreamed so much
Dear child, in whose veins beat
Strangely you say
So you devise
A diamond immortality,
Marjorie Allen saial
Shadowed by your dear hair, your dear kind eyes
If ever life was harsh
Ford Madox Hueffer \
IS IT WORTH WHILE
Dear, were you ever here?
It has all grown so faint—
Like the squeak of a bat, the chirp of a starling on the rim of the chimney outside,
As I lie in bed of a morning;
The cry of a new-born kitten,
Or the crawling of a beetle on a slate,
As I sit out in the warm summer evenings.
Yet there are traces
Less intangible. . . .
Well, well! . . .”
One throws away garments, one destroys photographs .
That remind one. . . .
Is it worth while to give up a house
Because of such slight aura
As these? |