Poetry

Called to sleep

By 11th July 2010December 9th, 2019No Comments

For never will my eyes sore bleed
Though solace is my sorest need
Death nor has compassion spare
It neither heeds nor does it care

It took away my own true love
My only sweet and precious dove
Buried now beneath green turf
Where beds of crimson roses surf

Across the waves: Whilst daffodils
Grow on the top of Sussex hills
Tree Willow bends its head and weeps
Upon the spot where she now sleeps

Through freezing cold and winter rain
Yet warming sun will shine again
Upon this the place; compassion deep
Where my own true love was laid to sleep.

Leslie de la Haye

Author Leslie de la Haye

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