Николай Гумилёв : электронное собрание сочинений.
http://gumilev.ru/

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Роберт Мок
Comfort

He that has been burried
Hears a glorious chime,
Smells the whitest lilies
In his dream beyond time.

He that in his grave lies
Sees an endless light
As the wings of Seraphs
Shed their snow-flakes bright.

You are on your death-bed
And your hands are cold.
Do you know what spring will
To your eyes unfold?

By my earnest prayer
Eden pure and true
Granted you forgiveness.
This I swear to you.

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Источник: Стихи.Ru (http://www.stihi.ru/2006/06/01-1782)

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