Softly love and to love softly.
Dew on the sycamore branch
by the creaking gate,
where my heart hurries afterwards,
through the path of wheat along the briar
to that stone under which I lie.
Dew on the sycamore branch
by the creaking gate,
where my heart hurries afterwards,
through the path of wheat along the briar
to that stone under which I lie.
Unknown
The author was a master artist.
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ReplyDeleteThis poem 'made' one of the most beautiful and poignant sequences in The Tudors.
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