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Oliver Herford (Оливер Херфорд) The Outing My Bed is like a little Bark, The hatch is battened down, And in the basket cabin dark I sail away from Town. Now, when they lift the lid, a scene Of wonder meets my eyes, Tall waving Feather-Dusters green, That seem to touch the skies. And over all the Ground is spread A Rug of Emerald sweet, Most deep enough to hide my head And tickly to my feet. And here’s the Cow, calm-eyed stands she, The Genie of the Jug, Beneath the Feather-Duster Tree, And eats the Emerald Rug. Oliver Herford's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1221 |
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