Wiersze – Oscar Wilde Emily Jane Bronte (7) · Ernest Bryll (68) · Jan Brzechwa () · Ewa Brzoza-Birk (8) · Charles Bukowski () · Iwan Bunin (27) · Robert.

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O loved ones lying far away, What word of love can dead lips send!

When was thy glory! Amazon Music Stream millions of songs.

Noce waniliowych myszy Wybor wierszy: Charles Bukowski: : Books

I’d like to read this book on Kindle Don’t have a Kindle? Get to Know Us. Discover Prime Book Box for Kids. For not bukoaski quiet English fields Are these, our brothers, lain to rest, Where we might deck their broken shields With all the flowers the dead love best. And many an Afghan chief, who lies Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees, Clutches his sword in fierce surmise When on the mountain-side he sees The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes To tell how he hath heard afar The measured roll of English drums Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

Amazon Inspire Digital Educational Resources. Wild grasses are their burial-sheet, And sobbing waves their charless.

Then of the peoples wert thou royal Queen, Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen; And now upon thy walls the breezes fan Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man! O lonely Himalayan height, Grey pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw’st thou last in clanging flight Our winged dogs of Victory? For southern wind and east wind meet Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire, England with bare and bloody feet Climbs the steep road of wide empire. Amazon Drive Cloud storage from Amazon. Some enemy hath stolen its crown of bay, And from its hills that voice hath passed away Which spake of Freedom: Down in some treacherous black ravine, Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

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buokwski Be the first to review this item Would you like to tell us about a lower price? And many a moon and sun will see The lingering wistful children wait To climb upon their father’s knee; And in each house made desolate Pale women who have lost their lord Will kiss the relics of the slain – Some tarnished epaulette – some sword – Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

Wiersze – Oscar Wilde

Amazon Second Chance Pass it on, trade it in, give it a second life. The yellow leopards, strained and lean, The treacherous Russian knows so well, With gaping blackened jaws are seen Leap through the hail of screaming shell.

If you are a seller for this product, would you like to suggest updates through seller support? Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour, When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One, The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God. I think thy spirit hath passed away From these white cliffs and high-embattled towers; This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey, And the age changed unto a mimic play Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours: The brazen-throated clarion blows Across the Pathan’s reedy fen, And the high steeps of Indian snows Shake to the tread of armed men.

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar A little maid Circassian Is led, a present from the Czar Unto some old and bearded khan, – Here have our wild war-eagles flown, And flapped wide wings in fiery fight; But the sad dove, that sits alone In England – she hath no delight. For some are by the Delhi walls, And many in the Afghan land, And many where the Ganges falls Through seven mouths of shifting sand. Theoretikos This mighty empire hath but feet of clay: And some in Russian waters lie, And others in the seas which are The portals to the East, or by The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.


And thou whose wounds are never healed, Whose weary race is never won, O Cromwell’s England! This mighty empire hath but feet of clay: Would you like to tell us about a lower price? The almond-groves of Samarcand, Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand The grave white-turbaned merchants bukowsoi Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?

Charles Bukowski: wiersze – a od jutra | Facebook

The hated flag of red and white and bkuowski. Write a customer review. Urbs Sacra Aeterna Rome! Is this the end! The strong sea-lion of England’s wars Hath left his sapphire cave of sea, To battle with the storm that mars The stars of England’s chivalry. The earth, a brittle globe of glass, Lies in the hollow of thy hand, And through its heart of crystal pass, Like shadows through a twilight land, The spears of crimson-suited war, The long white-crested waves of fight, And all the deadly fires which are The torches of the lords of Night.

Vita Nuova I stood by the unvintageable sea Till the wet waves drenched face and hair with spray; The long red fires of the dying day Burned in the west; the wind piped drearily; And to the land the clamorous gulls did flee: