Читать книгу Verse and Worse - Graham Harry - Страница 24

This is the land where minor bards

And other lunatics repair,

To live in houses made of cards,

Or build their castles in the air;

To feed on hope, and idly dream

That things are really what they seem.

The natives are a motley lot,

Of ev'ry age and creed and race,

But each inhabitant has got

The same expression on his face;

They look, when this their features fills,

Like angels with internal chills.

The lover sits, the livelong day,

Quite inarticulate of speech;

He simply brims with things to say;

Alas! the words he cannot reach,

And, silent, lets occasion pass,

Feeling a fulminating ass.

It is the lady lover's wont

To blush, and look demure or coy,