Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
The Lodging-House Fuchsias
Mrs Masters’s fuchsias hung Higher and broader, and brightly swung, Bell-like, more and more Over the narrow garden-path, Giving the passer a sprinkle-bath In the morning. She put up with their pushful ways, And made us tenderly lift their sprays, Going to her door: But when her funeral had to pass They cut back all the flowery mass In the morning.
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