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* * * Now let no charitable hope Confuse my mind with images Of eagle and of antelope: I am by nature none of these. I was, being human, born alone; I am, being woman, hard beset; I live by squeezing from a stone What little nourishment I get. In masks outrageous and austere The years go by in single file; But none has merited my fear, And none has quite escaped my smile. Elinor Wylie's other poems: ![]() Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1371 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |