Читать книгу Lays and Legends (Second Series) - Эдит Несбит, Nesbit Edith - Страница 14

Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!

One's heart and one's eyes on fire,

And never a spark in one's brain.

The stupid paper and ink,

That might be turned into gold,

Lie here unused

Since one's brain refused

To do its tricks – as of old.

One can suffer still, indeed,

But one cannot think any more.

There's no fire in the grate,

No food on the plate,

And the East-wind shrieks through the door.

The sunshine grins in the street:

It used to cheer me like wine,

Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;

And the children are crying for bread to eat

And I cannot write a line!

Molly, my pet – don't cry,

Father can't write if you do —

And anyhow, if you only knew,

It's hard enough as it is.

There, give old daddy a kiss,

And cuddle down on the floor;

We'll have some dinner by-and-by.

Now, fool, try! Try once more!

Hold your head tight in your hands,

Bring your will to bear!

The children are starving – your little ones —

While you sit fooling there.

Beth, with her golden hair;

Moll, with her rough, brown head —

Here they are – see!

Against your knee,

Waiting there to be fed! —

I cannot bear their eyes.

Their soft little kisses burn —

They will cry again

In vain, in vain,

For the food that I cannot earn.

If I could only write

Just a dozen pages or so

On "The Prospects of Trade,"

or "The Irish Question,"

or "Why are Wages so Low?" —

The printers are waiting for copy now,

I've had my next week's screw,

There'll be nothing more till I've written something,

Oh, God! what am I to do?

If I could only write!

The paper glares up white

Like the cursed white of the heavy stone

Under which she lies alone;

And the ink is black like death,

And the room and the window are black.

Molly, Molly – the sun's gone out,

Cannot you fetch it back?

Did I frighten my little ones?

Never mind, daddy dropped asleep —

Cuddle down closely, creep

Close to his knee

And daddy will see

If he can't do his writing. Vain!

I shall never write again!

Oh, God! was it like a love divine

To make their lives hang on my pen

When I cannot write a line?