Death comes as a pale maiden picking
flowers from a dewy field of morning, flowers
that withering love life none the less on their
last morning than when first felt sunlight
on their then bright petals; and the dew
on the trampled grass glitters icy
from the touch of her bare feet.
07.09.2024
Poem Poems Poetry Verse
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti