Читать книгу Afterwhiles - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 5

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Herr Weiser—! Three-score-years-and-ten—,

A hale white rose of his country-men,

Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam,

And blossomy as his German home—

As blossomy and as pure and sweet

As the cool green glen of his calm retreat,

Far withdrawn from the noisy town

Where trade goes clamoring up and down,

Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife,

May not trouble his tranquil life!

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust—!

Quite of the city's heat and dust,

Jostling down by the winding road,

Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode—.

Tether the horse, as we onward fare

Under the pear-trees trailing there,

And thumping the wood bridge at night

With lumps of ripeness and lush delight,

Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn,

Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon.

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face,

And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace

Of unassuming honesty,

Be there to welcome you and me!

And what though the toil of the farm be stopped

And the tireless plans of the place be dropped,

While the prayerful master's knees are set

In beds of pansy and mignonette

And lily and aster and columbine,

Offered in love, as yours and mine—?

What, but a blessing of kindly thought,

Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not—!

What, but a spirit of lustrous love

White as the aster he bends above—!

What, but an odorous memory

Of the dear old man, made known to me

In days demanding a help like his—,

As sweet as the life of the lily is—

As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise

Born of a lily in paradise.