Authors

The Garden

April 15, 2013 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.


Alfred Lord Tennyson

Excerpt from "Maud"

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