Emily Brontë
L
Louise Imogen Guiney
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What sacramental hurt that brings The terror of the truth of things Had changed thee? Secret be it yet. ’T was thine, upon a headland set, To view no isles of man’s delight, With lyric foam in rainbow flight, But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar, Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.
Kamu malı: şairin ölümünün üzerinden 70 yıldan fazla geçti.
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