Old Poetry Poetry • Poets • Essays • Forums •

A Song

The world is young today:
 Forget the gods are old,
 Forget the years of gold
When all the months were May.


A little flower of Love
 Is ours, without a root,
 Without the end of fruit,
Yet—take the scent thereof.


There may be hope above,
 There may be rest beneath;
 We see them not, but Death
Is palpable—and Love.

Leave a guest comment (subject to review)

    : Comment:

    Name: (required)
    Email: (required, hidden from spam)