Читать книгу The Complete Works - William Butler Yeats - Страница 45

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I thought of your beauty, and this arrow,

Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.

There’s no man may look upon her, no man;

As when newly grown to be a woman,

Blossom pale, she pulled down the pale blossom

At the moth hour and hid it in her bosom.

This beauty’s kinder, yet for a reason

I could weep that the old is out of season.