domingo, 19 de fevereiro de 2023

L de Lar


MY HOUSE, I SAY 


My house, I say.  
But hark to the sunny doves 
That make my roof the arena of their loves, 
That gyre about the gable all day long 
And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song: 
Our house, they say; and mine, the cat declares 
And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; 
And mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath 
If any alien foot profane the path. 
So, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces, 
Our whilom gardener, called the garden his; 
Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode 
And his late kingdom, only from the road.

 
Robert Louis Stevenson

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