Читать книгу Armazindy - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 4

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O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!

What canopied king might not covet the joy?

The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,

Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:

The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,

But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.

O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,

Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw

The stars through the window, and listened with awe

To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept

Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:

Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,

And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,

Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led

Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed.

O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!

With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;

Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,

Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of

love;

The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep

With the old fairy stories my memories keep

Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o’er the head

Once bowed o’er my own in the old trundle-bed.