WERE you but lying cold and dead,
And lights were paling out of the West,
You would come hither, and bend your head,
And I would lay my head on your breast;
And you would murmur tender words,
Forgiving me, because you were dead.
Though you have the will of the wild birds,
Nor would you rise and hasten away,
But know your hair was bound and wound
About the stars and moon and sun,
O would beloved that you lay
Under the dock-leaves in the ground,
While lights were paling one by one.
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白開水的滋味 (3)
