Читать книгу Impertinent Poems - Cooke Edmund Vance - Страница 7

You may labor your fill, friend of mine, if you will;

You may worry a bit, if you must;

You may treat your affairs as a series of cares,

You may live on a scrap and a crust;

But when the day's done, put it out of your head;

Don't take your troubles to bed.

You may batter your way through the thick of the fray,

You may sweat, you may swear, you may grunt;

You may be a jack-fool if you must, but this rule

Should ever be kept at the front: —

Don't fight with your pillow, but lay down your head

And kick every worriment out of the bed.

That friend or that foe (which he is, I don't know),

Whose name we have spoken as Death,

Hovers close to your side, while you run or you ride,

And he envies the warmth of your breath;

But he turns him away, with a shake of his head,

When he finds that you don't take your troubles to bed.