
Far up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,
Gown’d in pure white, that fitted to the shape,
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood,
A single steam of all her soft brown hair
Poured on one side. (Tennyson)


images that haunt us

Far up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,
Gown’d in pure white, that fitted to the shape,
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood,
A single steam of all her soft brown hair
Poured on one side. (Tennyson)

