When greens of grave’s have my ash to hide,
When farewell with brev’ty of my being
I’ll be a loom, a phantom in your mind,
I’ll be then sounded in your mouth like keen;
When friends of youth don’t pray for things of mine
While at the feast there’ cups of wine to drink –
Then take my harp of past time with your hand
That was the friend of dream and my own friend.
II
Hang her beside the window in your place
For autumn wind to play her like a bard,
And then for her to answer his embrace
With even echo of the songs of far;
But with your lily hand you couldn’t raise
The singing string of th’ ever sleeping harp,
Because the man who sang your love before
Will sleep for long to rise up nevermore.
Катенька, я с нетерпением жду твох стихов. Пиши,пиши.... У мер мой учитель , Шрага Вечяслав Борисович. Это личная Боль. Пиши, Пиши, Я Люблю твои стихи, и когда их нет на этом сервере , ищю в других. Ты , как всегда, молодчинка!