Любимые стихи - Литература - Balto-Slavica
A green drop in the surge, a gleam of light. Upon a sword, a fir-tree on a hill, An old slave grinding at a heavy quern, A king sitting upon a chair of gold --. And all these things were wonderful and great; But now I have grown nothing, knowing all. Ah! Druid, Druid, how great webs of sorrow.