Incipit
‘Tis a grove-circled dwelling Set close to a hill, Where the branches are telling Strange legends of ill; Over timbers so old That they breathe of the dead, Crawl the vines, green and cold, By strange nourishment fed; And no man knows the juices they suck from the depths of their dank slimy bed. In the gardens are growing Tall blossoms and fair, Each pallid bloom throwing Perfume on the air; But the afternoon sun with its shining red rays Makes the picture loom dun On the curious gaze, And above the sween scent of the the blossoms rise odours of numberless days. The rank gras …
291 mots · Poésie · texte intégral sur Wikisource.
Version transcrite — source non identifiée, 1919. (Le numéro dont Wikisource donne le texte ; ce n’est pas toujours la première parution.)
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Aucune entité de l’ontologie n’apparaît dans ce texte.