ac
Learn more about other poetry terms
ℜ𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢
𝔖𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔪𝔰
𝔄 𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔟
𝔒𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔪 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔣
𝔒𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔤𝔢
ℑ𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔴𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔢'𝔡 𝔡𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔨
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔨𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔉𝔢𝔟𝔯𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔶
ℭ𝔶𝔫𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔶 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫
ℭ𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔯𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔰
𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲
ℑ𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔞𝔯𝔢
ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔞 𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔡, 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔶 𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯
𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫 𝔬𝔶𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔟𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔯
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔞 𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔩𝔢
𝔉𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡
𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫
𝔄𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔴𝔢𝔭𝔱, 𝔣𝔬𝔯 ℑ 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱
𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔢
𝔅𝔲𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔥 𝔰𝔬 𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫
