Conrad Potter Aiken: Всі вірші поета

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Music I heard with you was more than music,

And bread I broke with you was more than bread;

Now that I am without you, all is desolate;

All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,

And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.

These things do not remember you, beloved,

And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

All lovely things will have an ending,

All lovely things will fade and die,

And youth, that's now so bravely spending,

Will beg a penny by and by.

Fine ladies soon are all forgotten,

And goldenrod is dust when dead,

The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten

And cobwebs tent the brightest head.