Habit
As inky crows lodge in a snow-clad wood
And smutch its fairness, so black thoughts in thee
Shake the ill birds from every snow-bowed tree
Be pure, by Heaven's grace! Alas! who could?
For these have built their nests, and now they come,
Will you or will you not, to seek their home:
The snows may come and go,—these will not flee.
And smutch its fairness, so black thoughts in thee
Shake the ill birds from every snow-bowed tree
Be pure, by Heaven's grace! Alas! who could?
For these have built their nests, and now they come,
Will you or will you not, to seek their home:
The snows may come and go,—these will not flee.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.