Читать книгу Lewis Carroll: The Complete Novels (The Greatest Novelists of All Time – Book 12) - Lewis Carroll - Страница 36

Is all our Life, then, but a dream

Seen faintly in the golden gleam

Athwart Time’s dark resistless stream?

Bowed to the earth with bitter woe,

Or laughing at some raree-show,

We flutter idly to and fro.

Man’s little Day in haste we spend,

And, from its merry noontide, send

No glance to meet the silent end.