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Слушать(AI)The Honeysuckle
I
ED a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair. Thence to a richer growth I came, Where, nursed in mellow intercourse, The honeysuckles sprang by scores, Not harried like my single stem, All virgin lamps of scent and dew. So from my hand that first I threw, Yet plucked not any more of them.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Gabriel Charles Dante Rossetti (12 May 1828 – 9 April 1882), generally known as Dante Gabriel Rossetti (/rəˈzɛti/),[1] was an English poet, illu
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Sonnet XIX Silent Noon
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,—The finger-points look through like rosy blooms: Your eyes smile peace The pasture gleams and glooms'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Limericks
RE is a big artist named Val, The roughs' and the prize—fighters' pal: The mind of a groom And the head of a broom Were Nature's endowments to Val There is a Creator named God Whose creations are sometimes quite odd:
The Woodspurge
HE wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill: I had walked on at the wind's will,—I sat now, for the wind was still Between my knees my forehead was,—My lips, drawn in, said not Alas
Sonnett VI A Nuptial Sleep
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart: And as the last slow sudden drops are From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled, So singly flagged the pulses of each heart