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William Brighty Rands (Уильям Брайти Рэндс) Polly Brown eyes, Straight nose; Dirt pies, Rumpled clothes; Torn books, Spoilt toys; Arch looks, Unlike a boy's; Little rages, Obvious arts; (Three her age is) Cakes, tarts. Falling down Off chairs; Breaking crown Down stairs; Catching flies on the pane; Deep sighs,— Cause not plain; Bribing you With kisses For a few Farthing blisses; Wide awake, As you hear, "Mercy's sake, Quiet dear!" New shoes, New frock; Vague views Of what's o'clock When it's time To go to bed, And scorn sublime For what is said; Folded hands, Saying prayers, Understands Not, nor cares; Thinks it odd, Smiles away; Yet may God Hear her pray! Bedgown white, Kiss dolly; Goodnight! - That's Polly, Fast asleep, As you see; Heaven keep My girl for me! William Brighty Rands's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1350 |
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