Читать книгу Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches - Riley James Whitcomb - Страница 15

Some sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose,

And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws

In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays

Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;

But what is the lilly and all of the rest

Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest

That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew

Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?

I never set eyes on a clover-field now,

Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,

But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane

As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;

And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,

Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam

With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love

Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.

And so I love clover – it seems like a part

Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;

And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow

And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;

And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,

To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,

And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom

While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume.