Sick, not of life’s feast... «The Ring And The Book»
innashpitzberg23 июня 2013Sick, not of life’s feast but of steps to climb To the house where life prepares her feast — of means To the end: for make the end attainable Without the means — my relish were like yours. A man may have an appetite enough For a whole dish of robins ready cooked, And yet lack courage to face sleet, pad snow, And snare sufficiency for supper.
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