Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 51

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Going for the milk—

A toddling child with skin like curds,

On a May morning in a charm of birds:

Going for the milk

With laughing, teasing lads, at seventeen,

With rosy cheeks and breast as soft as silk—

Eh! what a mort of years between!

Going for the milk

Through my Jim’s garden, past the bush o’ balm,

With my first baby sleeping on my arm:

It’s fifty year, come Easter, since that day;

The work’us ward is cold, my eyes be dim;

Never no more I’ll go the flowery way,

Fetching the milk. I drink the pauper’s skim,

And mind me of those summer days, and Jim

Telling me as my breast was soft as silk—

And that first day I missed to fetch the milk.