Читать книгу Dickinson: The Complete Works - Эмили Дикинсон - Страница 98

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I went to thank her,

But she slept;

Her bed a funnelled stone,

With nosegays at the head and foot,

That travellers had thrown,

Who went to thank her;

But she slept.

'T was short to cross the sea

To look upon her like, alive,

But turning back 't was slow.