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Florence May Wright · Modernismo
inglés
It lies in my hand,
A dead, dead rose;
Not lovely now, but it once was fair.
No sweets are shed
From its petals dead,
But its thorns are sharp as ever they were.
It lies in my heart,
A dead, dead love;
Nor hope, nor happiness brings to me,
A faded flower,
It has lived its hour;
But its thorns are sharp as they used to be.
ws-en-volume-1-thorns--florence-may-wright-0b3248Las obras de dominio público se reproducen íntegras, con atribución y en la ortografía de su impreso. No pedimos datos personales para avisar de una errata; para otra cosa, escríbenos desde Sobre la casa.