Читать книгу Poems - Edna St. Vincent Millay - Страница 9

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I’ll keep a little tavern

Below the high hill’s crest,

Wherein all grey-eyed people

May sit them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty,

And mugs to melt the chill

Of all the grey-eyed people

Who happen up the hill.

There sound will sleep the traveller,

And dream his journey’s end,

But I will rouse at midnight

The falling fire to tend.

Aye, ’tis a curious fancy—

But all the good I know

Was taught me out of two grey eyes

A long time ago.