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

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Had a ticket stuck; and a string

Around his neck bore the key of his box,

That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams

Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boy

Towards a world unknown,

Who calmly, as if incurious quite

On all at stake, can undertake

This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,

Our rude realms far above,

Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete

This region of sin that you find you in,

But are not of?

Thomas Hardy

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Once when the sun of the year was beginning to fall

We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?

A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,

The other curled at his heart. He dipped his head

And snorted to us; and then he had to bolt.

We heard the muffled thunder when he fled

And we saw him or thought we saw him dim and grey

Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.

We said, "The little fellow's afraid of the snow.

He isn't winter broken." "It isn't play

With the little fellow at all. He's running away.