Читать книгу Sapphic Classics - Sappho - Страница 77

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The sun on the tide, the peach on the bough,

The blue smoke over the hill,

And the shadows trailing the valley-side,

Make up the autumn day.

Ah, no, not half! Thou art not here 5

Under the bronze beech-leaves,

And thy lover's soul like a lonely child

Roams through an empty room.