IDYL

by: Alfred Mombert (1872-1942)

      ND my young sweetheart sat at board with me.
      I ate and drank and cried most bitterly.
      Delicate linen on the board she laid.
      And of her own small shift that cloth was made.
      She gave to me a little silvern cup.
      And it was her own blood that filled it up.
      She took a loaf and gave me bread thereof.
      And that was her young body warm with love.
       
      Then, as of some strange mystery aware,
      She smiled, and put a rose into her hair.
       
      TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH BY LUDWIG LEWISOHN

MORE POEMS BY ALFRED MOMBERT

RELATED LINKS

BROWSE THE POETRY ARCHIVE:

[ A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M | N | O | P | Q | R | S | T | U | V | W | X | Y | Z ]

Home · Poetry Store · Links · Email · © 2003 Poetry-Archive.com