When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed,
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride,
Were gilded o'er by his rich golden head.
Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.
Harriet Bradstreet, "Contemplations"
3.5.12
Crunchiness
I like the crunchiness of the sound of the rain, when there is no more rain, and water falls from one leaf to the next.
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)