Читать книгу Poems. Volume 3 - George Meredith - Страница 8

Not ere the bitter herb we taste,

Which ages thought of happy times,

To plant us in a weeping waste,

Rings with our fellows this one heart

            Accordant chimes.

When I had shed my glad year’s leaf,

I did believe I stood alone,

Till that great company of Grief

Taught me to know this craving heart

      For not my own.