December 2011
41 posts
Fumacê: The Hill, Rupert Brooke →
fumace:
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass; Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still, When we are old, are old… .” “And when we die All’s over that is ours; and life burns on Through other…
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