Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

Epitaph for George Moore

On one who thought no other could write such English as himself

‘No mortal man beneath the sky
Can write such English as can I
They say it holds no thought my own
What then, such beauty (perfection) is not known.’

Heap dustbins on him:
They’ll not meet
The apex of his self conceit.

1. Silences
2. The Bad Example
3. On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth
4. The Three Tall Men
5. A Victorian Rehearsal

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1580

Последние стихотворения

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