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| Knygos | Knygos |
 Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson...  The Atlantic Monthly - 487 psl. 1918 Visos knygos peržiūra -
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