T.S. Eliot


When we came home across the hill no leaves were fallen from the trees; The gentle fingers of the breeze had torn no quivering cobweb down. The hedgerow bloomed with flowers still, no withered petals lay beneath; But the wild roses in your wreath were faded, and the leaves were brown.

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0