the evening had not yet gone,
the sky was still not scarlet, the
sun was still to go beneath, the
edges of the Hampstead Heath.
My hands were still in my pockets,
you were still a little far; the heath
then stretched like golden farms,
and you were not yet in my arms.
the sky was still not scarlet, the
sun was still to go beneath, the
edges of the Hampstead Heath.
My hands were still in my pockets,
you were still a little far; the heath
then stretched like golden farms,
and you were not yet in my arms.
No comments:
Post a Comment