گیت کے بول کے نقاط
ENاصل بول
ترجمہ ابھی دستیاب نہیں۔ اصل بول دکھائے جا رہے ہیں۔
The warm sun is failing,
the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing;
the pale flowers are dying,
Come months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year,
The chill rain is falling;
the night worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling,
the thunder is knelling,
The blithe swallows are flown,
and the lizards each gone
And the earth's a deathbed,
in a shroud of leaves dead
Come months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year.
