Последний отзыв
Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
Далее
По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
A line-o'-verse or two
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
Baby bye, here’s a fly,
We will watch him, you and I;
Lest he fall in Baby’s mouth,
Bringing germs from north and south.
In the world of things a-wing
There is not a nastier thing
Than this pesky little fly; —
So we’ll watch him, you and I.
See him crawl up the wall,
And he’ll never, never fall;
Save that, poisoned, he may drop
In the soup or on the chop.
Let us coax the cunning brute
To the tempting Tanglefoot,
Or invite his thirsty soul
To the poison-paper bowl.
I believe with six such legs
You or I could walk on eggs;
But he’d rather crawl on meat
With his microbe-laden feet.
Eggs would hardly do as well —
He could not get through the shell;
Better far, to spread disease,
Vegetables, meat, or cheese.
There he goes, on his toes,
Tickling, tickling Baby’s nose.
Heaven knows where he has been,
And what filth he’s wallowed in.
Drat the nasty little wretch!
He’s the deuce and all to ketch.
Ah! He’s settled on the wall.
Now the thunderbolt shall fall!
Baby bye, see that fly?
We will swat him, you and I.
THE PASSIONATE PROFESSOR
“But bending low, I whisper only this:
‘Love, it is night.’”
– Harry Thurston Peck.
Love, it is night. The orb of day
Has gone to hit the cosmic hay.
Nocturnal voices now we hear.
Come, heart’s delight, the hour is near
When Passion’s mandate we obey.
I would not, sweet, the fact convey
In any crude and obvious way:
I merely whisper in your ear —
“Love, it is night!”
Candor compels me, pet, to say
That years my fading charms betray.
Tho’ Love be blind, I grant it’s clear
I’m no Apollo Belvedere.
But after dark all cats are gray.
Love, it is night!
A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING
Now is my season of unrest,
Now calls the forest, day and night;
And by its pleasant spell obsessed,
My wits go soaring like a kite.
Forgive me if I be not bright,
And pardon if I seem distrait;
Wood-fancies put my wits to flight; —
The woods are but a week away.
Palleth upon my soul the jest,
Falleth upon my pen a blight.
The daily task has lost its zest,
And everything is flat and trite.
There’s nothing humorous in sight;
Don’t mind if I am dull to-day.
For every column is a fight
When woods are but a week away.
Woods in the robes of summer dressed —
In greens and grays and browns bedight!
A journey on a river’s breast,
Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!..
This end the Voyage of Delight
Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,
A bark canoe, all trim and tight; —
The woods are but a week away!
L’Envoi
Dear Reader, there is much to write;
I’ve many weighty things to say.
But who can write when woods invite,
And woods are but a week away!
Другие электронные книги автора Bert Taylor
Последний отзыв
Книга довольно хорошо написана в виде рассказов старого человека молодому парню, основанных на событиях его реальной жизни, охватывающей период с нача...
Далее