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Thứ Tư, 26 tháng 8, 2015

The winter it is past, and the summer comes at last

Robert Burns (1759-1796)


The winter it is past, and the summer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on ev'ry tree:
The hearts of these are glad, but mine is very sad,
For my love is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear
May have charms for the linnet or the bee:
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my lover is parted from me.

My love in like the sun
and the firmament does run—
Forever is constant and true;
But his is like the moon, that wanders up and down,
And every month it is new.

All you that are in love, and cannot it remove,
I pity the pains you endure,
For experience makes me know that your hearts are full of woe,
A woe that no mortal can cure.