Читать книгу Phemie Frost's Experiences - Ann S. Stephens - Страница 3

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Thistle down, thistle down, cast to the wind

So lightly and wildly, you scarcely can find

A glimpse of it here, or a gleam of it there,

As it trembles, a silvery mist, on the air.

Like the wide thorny leaves whence the mother root threw

Up its crown of rich purple, bejewelled with dew,

These feathery nothings, barbed, sparsely, with seeds,

Must struggle for life with the brambles and weeds.