_________________________________________________________________________________
Even tomorrow,
there will be,
this singing of the birds
at early dawn ;
The sweet fragrance
of Arcadias
will fill the air ;
But tomorrow,
is not for me ,
lying in the silent depths ,
cold ,
and eyes closed for ever,
I will neither smell
nor see ,
nor bear a memory
or
be remembered ;
Save perhaps
on a little sign-board
lying in the attic
under a heap of junk ,
Much the same
as I used to be
always.
----------------------------
12 Oct 1963
____________________________________________________________________________
No comments:
Post a Comment