James Thomson (Джеймс Томсон)

* * *

ONCE in a saintly passion
  I cried with desperate grief,
"O Lord, my heart is black with guile,
  Of sinners I am chief."
Then stooped my guardian angel
  And whispered from behind,
"Vanity, my little man,
  You're nothing of the kind."

1. The City of Dreadful Night
2. The Fire That Filled My Heart of Old
3. A Song of Sighing
4. Day
5. In the Room

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1903

Последние стихотворения

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