The brooms glow in the desolate moors;
on the ochre hills, the heather sings:
But you cannot heal my sad heart or ease
The memory of my poor dead child.
Come: it is springtime in the valley;
Sweet as her voice, the water whispers in passing,
And clear as her laughter is the growing angelus;
Fresh as her mouth is the wet foam.
I have the fever: Come, close to the rosemary,
Close to this frozen well that gnaws fresh grass;
Come, mourn and die, girl with the serene eyes;
We are tired: I feel the pain of this broken heart,
This dead heart during the month of May,
And this spring that she will never see.
Comments about this poem (The Fever by Francis Jammes )
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