最終更新日:2022/12/24
it was not art, Of wisdom and of justice when he spoke— When ’mid soft looks of pity, there would dart A glance as keen as is the lightning’s stroke When it doth rive the knots of some ancestral oak.
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it was not art, Of wisdom and of justice when he spoke— When ’mid soft looks of pity, there would dart A glance as keen as is the lightning’s stroke When it doth rive the knots of some ancestral oak.