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Thomas Edward Brown (Томас Эдвард Браун) * * * I bended unto me a bough of May, That I might see and smell: It bore it in a sort of way, It bore it very well. But, when I let it backward sway, Then it were hard to tell With what a toss, with what a swing, The dainty thing Resumed its proper level, And sent me to the devil. I know it did--you doubt it? I turned, and saw them whispering about it. Thomas Edward Brown's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1349 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |