Malade - Sách nói Miễn phí

LOTUS HURT BY THE COLD

     How many times, like lotus lilies risen
        Upon the surface of a river, there
        Have risen floating on my blood the rare
     Soft glimmers of my hope escaped from prison.

     So I am clothed all over with the light
        And sensitive beautiful blossoming of passion;
        Till naked for her in the finest fashion
     The flowers of all my mud swim into sight.

     And then I offer all myself unto
        This woman who likes to love me: but she turns
        A look of hate upon the flower that burns
     To break and pour her out its precious dew.

     And slowly all the blossom shuts in pain,
        And all the lotus buds of love sink over
        To die unopened: when my moon-faced lover,
     Kind on the weight of suffering, smiles again.