Request Poem by Laurence Hope
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Give me your self one hour; I do not crave
For any love, or even thought, of me.
Come, as a Sultan may caress a slave
And then forget for ever, utterly.
Come! as west winds, that passing, cool and wet,
O'er desert places, leave them fields in flower
And all my life, for I shall not forget,
Will keep the fragrance of that perfect hour!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Topic(s) of this poem: places,flower
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8/11/2026 5:57:32 PM # rel_20260811T123139Z_a98d49b
