Читать книгу Bread and Circuses онлайн

7 страница из 14

Then the first baked batch of Profits, ’twas a treat my mother planned, Drew them foaming from the oven with the dishcloth round her hand, She who poured the amber cider to the pewter’s polished brink And the Apple-man from Awbridge wet the bargain with a drink.

For he buys them by the bushel and he buys them on the trees And he sends them from the orchard plot to places such as these; And there’s money in your pocket and a hollow at your heart When the Apple-man from Awbridge comes a-loading of his cart.

And maybe the nameless apples on the stall in Fulham Road Once were piled behind his pony in that fresh and fragrant load And maybe it was my mother pulled the Ladies’ Fingers down; And the Apple-man from Awbridge turned them over to the town.

ssss1

When by the fire-light Dulcibel Stirs the red ash with lively grace, Is it the glow of Heaven or Hell That mantles in her rosy face?

They know, Who for despair and joy All fateful loveliness have blent, Who do both comfort and destroy With the indifferent element.