Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall (Марджори Пиктхолл)
Thoughts
I gave my thoughts a golden peach, A silver citron tree; They clustered dumbly out of reach And would not sing for me. I built my thoughts a roof of rush, A little byre beside; They left my music to the thrush And flew at eveningtide. I went my way and would not care If they should come and go; A thousand birds seemed up in air, My thoughts were singing so.
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