| ||||||||||||||||
|
Michelle O'Sullivan
There's a gleam to the trees and meadow
convent quiet,
and rich as a jeweller's window.
Facing the lake-water is your bull.
He's concentrated and arcane,
his Dutch yellows make him look mild;
you think he sings to himself.
Like you, he seems to have had
a grasp of what it was to love.
What it is.
And he's lost it.
点击  收听单词发音
|
||||||||||||||||
- 发表评论
-
- 最新评论 进入详细评论页>>
