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" But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. Afid there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:... "
A poetical grammar of the English language - Σελίδα 122
των Robert Clarke (schoolmaster.) - 1855
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