Р А Б Ы. Slaves
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Slaves, run softly, till I end my song. T.S. Eliot
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The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The windCrosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Slaves, run softly, till I end my song. T.S. Eliot