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The Anti-Suffragist The princess in her world-old tower pined A prisoner, brazen-caged, without a gleam Of sunlight, or a windowful of wind; She lived but in a long lamp-lighted dream. They brought her forth at last when she was old; The sunlight on her blanched hair was shed Too late to turn its silver into gold. “Ah, shield me from this brazen glare!” she said. Eva Gore-Booth's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1227 |
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