Читать книгу Poems, and The Spring of Joy - Mary Webb - Страница 52

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Poor little traveller, lost in night!

God made a miracle, I know,

To give you life—tears and delight,

And ecstasy and ancient woe.

Yet barefoot in the snow you stand,

Beseeching bread with shaking hand.

Poor baby, with your wistful face!

When you are grown a man, and tall,

You’ll have the kingly, simple grace,

The smile that makes a festival.

Yet from the dark your hungry eyes

Behold the cook-shop’s paradise.