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作词 : Wilfred Owen |
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作曲 : Benjamin Britten |
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She sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost looms |
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Out of the stillness of her palace wall, |
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Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms. |
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She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms, |
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Not marvelling why her roses never fall |
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Nor what red mouths were torn to make their blooms. |
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The shades keep down which well might roam her hall. |
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Quiet their blood lies in her crimson rooms |
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And she is not afraid of their footfall. |
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They move not from her tapestries, their pall, |
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Nor pace her terraces, their hecatombs, |
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Lest aught she be disturbed, or grieved at all. |