Robert Herrick (Роберт Геррик (Херрик))

To Laurels

A funeral stone
Or verse, I covet none;
But only crave
Of you that I may have
A sacred laurel springing from my grave:
Which being seen
Blest with perpetual green,
May grow to be
Not so much call'd a tree,
As the eternal monument of me.

1. Four Things Make Us Happy Here
2. Upon the Detracter
3. Upon Wrinkles
4. Casualties
5. Upon Tears

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1586

Последние стихотворения

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