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Brook of Sanguinetto, near the Lake of Thrasymene We win, where least we care to strive; And where the most we strive—we miss. Old Hannibal, if now alive, Might sadly testify to this. He lost the Rome, for which he came; And—what he never had in petto— Won for this little brook a name— Its mournful name of Sanguinetto. John Kenyon's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1255 |
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