>>1137üjas'ın sevdiğim bir şiirini buraya atayım öyleyse
I.
At Two, she is a tiny lass,
And joy she scarcely knows from sorrow;
She scarce consults her looking-glass;
She has no thought of sad tomorrow!
II.
At Four she is a merry maid,
And looks on aught but play as folly;
She can't believe bright flowers fade–
That only sawdust is her dolly.
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