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

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Seldom he shot.

But now that he is gone

Out of most memories,

Still lingers on,

A stoat of his,

But one, shrivelled and green,

And with no scent at all,

And barely seen

On this shed wall.

Edward Thomas

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Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,

Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,

Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,

My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,

Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,

Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,

And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,

Hills of home! and to hear again the call;

Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,

And hear no more at all.

Robert Louis Stevenson

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There were twa brethren in the north,

They went[50] to the school thegither;

The one unto the other said,

"Will you try a warsle[51] afore?"

They warsled up, they warsled down,