Puslapio vaizdai
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To

you I sing, whom torvns immure,
And bonds of toil hold fast and sure ;—
To you across whose aching sight
Come woodlands bathed in April light,
And dreams of pastime premature.

And you, O Sad, who still endure

Some wound that only Time can cure,—
To you, in watches of the night,—
To you I sing!

But most to you with eyelids pure,
Scarce witting yet of love or lure;—
To you, with bird-like glances bright,
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight ;-
O English Girl, divine, demure,

To YOU I sing!

"le ne puis tenir registre de ma vie par mes actions; fortune les met trop bas: ie la tiens par mes fantasies.'

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