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Henry Constable · Barroco
inglés
I am always carving arrows
Or polishing my bow,
Yet why I care for hunting
I do not seem to know.
For they are long and lonely,
The ways of wood and hill,
And it is wearisome to seek,
And sorrowful to kill,
But I am always hoping,
I shall carry home some prize,
Like a white-feathered squirrel,
Or a fawn with blue eyes.
The MeasureWinifred Welles
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