Текст оригинала на английском языке
In the Riviera
The rose's leaves are red Upon the April blue, No single leaflet shed Of all the sun shines through; The rose's self is white, Her stem is lithe and tall, Where languid with delight She overlooks the wall. I am not like the rose,— My May and June are past, And every wind that blows Takes leaves that are my last, And yet, I know not why, No gladdest, greenest thing So inly feels as I The passion of the spring.
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