Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie. My music shows ye have your closes. And all must die....
Recollections of a Literary Life - Página 201
por Mary Russell Mitford - 1855 - 558 páginas
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