Thomas MacDonagh (Томас Макдона)

My Poet

--My poet the rose of his fancies
Wrought unwritten in verse,
And left but the lilies and pansies
To strew his early hearse.

--The master-dream of your poet
Has perished for ever then?
--What know we? Should we know it
If it were born again? 

1. The Philistine
2. The Stars Stand up in the Air
3. To a Wise Man
4. In Dread
5. Dublin Tramcars

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1704

Последние стихотворения

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