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lőr i nc sz a bó | 133 l ő r i n c s z a b ó (19 0 0 – 19 5 7) They Say, How Beautiful They say, how beautiful, and I say nothing, they say her bronze-blaze hair is like the dawn, they say she carries stars in her great eyes, that such disdain would never spare a glance for one who’s as dark and ugly as am I. She chuckles, and they, yearning, gaze upon her, her mocking lips, her chin’s delicate arch, and they don’t know she kissed me yesterday, and when she’s silent, they can’t know she’s thinking how this time yesterday the dew was falling and how it fell on her and also me, how seeing then our lazing afterglow even the thrushes got intoxicated and skimming low among the leaves of May they burst out in a frantic madrigal. 1922 ...

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