昨天有人写给我一首雪莱的诗,感觉不错: One word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it; One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear Than that from another, I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, — The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar Form the sphere of our sorrow? ([已注销])诗歌还是得细细品啊~~~
感谢你帮我翻页,哈哈~~