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Слушать(AI)November
There is wind where the rose was,
Cold rain where sweet grass was,
And clouds like sheep Stream o'er the steep Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought warm where your hand was,
Nought gold where your hair was,
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Cold wind where your voice was,
Tears, tears where my heart was,
And ever with me,
Child, ever with me,
Silence where hope was.
Walter de la Mare
Walter John de la Mare (25 April 1873 – 22 June 1956) was an English poet, short story writer, and novelist. He is probably best remembered for
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Winter
Clouded with snow The cold winds blow, And shrill on leafless bough The robin with its burning breast Alone sings now The rayless sun, Day's journey done,
Some One
Some one came At my wee, small door; Someone came knocking; I'm sure-sure-sure;
Off the Ground
Three jolly Farmers Once bet a pound Each dance the others would Off the ground Out of their coats They slipped right soon, And neat and nicesome Put each his shoon One—Two—Three
The Pigs and the Charcoal-burner
The old Pig said to the little pigs,'In the forest is truffles and mast, Follow me then, all ye little pigs, Follow me fast 'The Charcoal-burner sat in the
