A Song Poem by Digby Mackworth Dolben
A Song
The world is young today:
Forget the gods are old,
Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.
A little flower of Love
Is ours, without a root,
Without the end of fruit,
Yet-take the scent thereof.
There may be hope above,
There may be rest beneath;
We see them not, but Death
Is palpable-and Love.
Monday, September 13, 2010
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4/26/2024 7:03:09 PM # 1.0.0.1119
