to my grave

oh what is this — my silent Grave?

weep not, my Love, the night is grave:

for Time, a patient Loom, doth bind

soul’s secret thread to mortal mind.

I shall crave — I shall crave — I shall crave,

a hungering star in a hollowed nave;

for thee, my strange and laughing Fate,

thou art my fool, my Madder Mate.

in iron flowers the hours conspire,

and angels fold their wings of fire;

yet love, though bent like autumn bough,

shall turn the grave to river now.

Отзывы

Это ваше произведение, и почему на английском? Мрачновато конечно

Да, моё, захотелось попробовать на английском, я неплохо знаю английский и немецкий языки)