HAD I the thrush's throat, I could not sing you
Songs sweeter than his own. And I'm too poor
To lay the gifts that other lovers bring you
Low at your silver door.
Such as I have, I give. See, for your taking
Tired hands are here, and feet grown dark with dust.
Here's a lost hope, and here a heart whose aching
Grows greater than its trust.
Sleep on, you will not hear me. But to-morrow
You will remember in your fragrant ways,
Finding the voice of twilight and my sorrow
Lovelier than all men's praise.
To Timarion
Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Poem topics: dark, heart, hope, lost, poor, remember, silver, sleep, sorrow, trust, voice, hear, door, bring, dust, tired, throat, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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