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,
Thursday, November 8, 2012