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William Henry Davies (Уильям Генри Дэвис (Дэйвис)) My Youth My youth was my old age, Weary and long; It had too many cares To think of song; My moulting days all came When I was young. Now, in life's prime, my soul Comes out in flower; Late, as with Robin, comes My singing power; I was not born to joy Till this late hour. William Henry Davies's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1197 |
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