Читать книгу Poems - Edna St. Vincent Millay - Страница 8

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Sorrow like a ceaseless rain

Beats upon my heart.

People twist and scream in pain—

Dawn will find them still again;

This has neither wax nor wane,

Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;

I sit in my chair.

All my thoughts are slow and brown:

Standing up or sitting down

Little matters, or what gown

Or what shoes I wear.