Читать книгу Come Hither: A Collection of Rhymes and Poems for the Young of All Ages онлайн

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Across the waters, cold and still,

A bird whose wings were palest blue.

The sky above was blue at last,

The sky beneath me blue in blue.

A moment, ere the bird had passed,

It caught his image as he flew.

Mary Coleridge

113

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving:

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,

With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;

Sweet little red feet! why should you die—

Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?

You lived alone in the forest-tree,

Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me?

I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

John Keats

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As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

Trees did grow and plants did spring;

Everything did banish moan

Save the Nightingale alone:

She, poor bird, as all forlorn

Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,

And there sung the doleful'st ditty.