Chhwe (chhwe) wrote,
Chhwe
chhwe

Too like the lightningt which doth cease to be
Ere one can say it lightens. Sweet, good night.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

"There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell."
Tags: Мёд поэзии
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