06 February 2015

O Islão bom  (X)

The Physician

Pale fingers of the drowsy dawn have rent 
The garment of the night, and thou, beloved, 
Tearest the sad weeds of my discontent 
With dawn-tipped fingers. 

Wherefore I invent 
A medicine from the moisture of thy lips 
And from the roses that thy cheeks have lent, 
To cure my melancholy.

No comments: