All things uncomely and broken,
all things worn-out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway,
the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman,
splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart...
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The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves, And then you came with those red mournful lips, |
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, |
When you are old and grey and full of sleep, How many loved your moments of glad grace, |
O, hurry, where by water, among the trees, Or have you heard that sliding silver-shoed |