Friday, October 19, 2012

Broken Off Comments

Rating: 2.7

The sun flares out in the ruddy east,
The ships stand rigid, like ghostly trees:
The roar and rattle of work have ceased,
The bathers' laugh comes up on the breeze,
And in the flash of the sunset gold
I count the chests I have bought and sold.
...
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Isabella Fyvie Mayo
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