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* * * The wayfarer, Perceiving the pathway to truth, Was struck with astonishment. It was thickly grown with weeds. "Ha," he said, "I see that none has passed here In a long time." Later he saw that each weed Was a singular knife. "Well," he mumbled at last, "Doubtless there are other roads." Stephen Crane's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1215 |
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