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8 января 2015 г., 15:28
Emily Brontë
The wind on Crow Hill was her darling.
His fierce, high tale in her ear was her secret.
But his kiss was fatal.
Through her dark Paradise ran
The stream she loved too well
That bit her breast.
The shaggy sodden king of that kingdom
Followed through the wall
And lay on her love-sick bed.
The curlew trod in her womb.
Her death is a baby-cry on the moor
The stone swelled under her heart.
