An old bouquet
Still bringing in hand,
Through snows away
And far I strand.
On that same trace,
His sword free from straps,
At his own pace,
Enveloped in wraps,
He’s walking, and knows
To trail the tread,
And that at the close
The sunset is red,
That my endeavour
Lasts not through the dark,
That freedom forever
Abandons me stark.
Can some stead bestow,
This late, a hush?
The roses slow
Fall in the slush,
The teary flow
Falls in a gush.
With me under strain
And out of breath,
The roses vain
He’ll trample to death.
---
«Старинные розы…», 1908–1914
Blok A. An old bouquet...
© Copyright: Рф Бартон, 2024
Свидетельство о публикации №124092206790
Свидетельство о публикации №124092206790
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