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From a Window Up here, with June, the sycamore throws Across the window a whispering screen; I shall miss the sycamore more I suppose, Than anything else on this earth that is out in green. But I mean to go through the door without fear, Not caring much what happens here When I’m away: -- How green the screen is across the panes Or who goes laughing along the lanes With my old lover all the summer day. Charlotte Mew's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1439 |
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