1 мин
Слушать(AI)Unsuspecting
There is a natty kind of
That slicks its thoughts,
Culls its oughts,
Trims its views,
Prunes its trues,
And never suspects it is a rind.
Jean Toomer
Jean Toomer (born Nathan Pinchback Toomer, December 26, 1894 – March 30, 1967) was an American poet and novelist commonly associated with the Ha
Комментарии
Вам нужно войти , чтобы оставить комментарий
Другие работы автора
The Lost Dancer
Spatial depths of being The birth to death Of feet dancing on earth of sand; Vibrations of the dance
Georgia Dusk
The sky, lazily disdaining to The setting sun, too indolent to holdA lengthened tournament for flashing gold, Passively darkens for night's barbeque, A feast of moon and men and barking hounds
Evening Song
Full moon rising on the waters of my heart, Lakes and moon and fires, Cloine tires, Holding her lips apart
Song of the Son
Pour O pour that parting soul in songO pour it in the sawdust glow of Into the velvet pine-smoke air tonight, And let the valley carry it along And let the valley carry it along