Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 46

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Under a blossoming tree

Let me lie down,

With one blackbird to sing to me

In the evenings brown.

Safe from the world’s long importunity—

The endless talk, the critical, sly stare,

The trifling social days—and unaware

Of all the bitter thoughts they have of me,

Low in the grass, deep in the daisies,

I shall sleep sound, safe from their blames and praises.