Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (Эмили Дикинсон)

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Essential oils are wrung:
The attar from the rose
Is not expressed by suns alone,
It is the gift of screws.

The general rose decays;
But this, in lady's drawer,
Makes summer when the lady lies
In ceaseless rosemary.

1. What Soft, Cherubic Creatures
2. Unto My Books So Good to Turn
3. This Merit Hath the Worst
4. Going
5. I Lived on Dread; to Those Who Know

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1719

Последние стихотворения

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