E. Gosse

Ирина Ачкасова: литературный дневник

And now, through smoke of flaring dips.
The stars are seen, like ghostly ships.
With all sails set in heaven's dark sea


And ghostly white from the elder-tree
The clusters hang ; but still there flows
No honey from the parched-up rose.
No breath from the honeysuckle blows—
All 's blighted by the witches.



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