пятница, 18 марта 2011 г.

But to that second circle of sad hell,

Where ‘mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw

…Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell

Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,

Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form

I floated with, about that melancholy storm.