Читать книгу Sapphic Classics - Sappho - Страница 98

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Cold is the wind where Daphne sleeps,

That was so tender and so warm

With loving—with a loveliness

Than her own laurel lovelier.

Now pipes the bitter wind for her, 5

And the snow sifts about her door,

While far below her frosty hill

The racing billows plunge and boom.