Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
My throat is sore
My throat is sore, my voice is hoarse with skriking,
My rests are sighs, deep from the heart’s root fetched;
My song runs all on sharps, and with oft striking
Time on my breast, I shrink with hands outstretched;
Thus still, and still I sing, and ne’er am linning,
For still the close points to my first beginning.
poem
by
John Wilbye
solid border
dashed border
dotted border
double border
groove border
ridge border
inset border
outset border
no border
blue
green
red
purple
cyan
gold
silver
black