When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrowed field Return sae dowf and weary O.
With drooping shoulders The majority sit hunched, their foreheads furrowed like Stony ground that has been repeatedly ploughed-up to no purpose.bertolt brecht
The editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head, His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread.will carleton
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