Читать книгу A line-o'-verse or two - Taylor Bert Leston - Страница 8

Up in the woodland where Spring

Comes as a laggard, the breeze

Whispers the pines that the King,

Fallen, has yielded the keys

To his White Palace and flees

Northward o’er mountain and dale.

Speed then the hour that frees!

Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Northward my fancy takes wing,

Restless am I, ill at ease.

Pleasures the city can bring

Lose now their power to please.

Barren, all barren, are these,

Town life’s a tedious tale;

That cup is drained to the lees —

Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Ho, for the morning I sling

Pack at my back, and with knees

Brushing a thoroughfare, fling

Into the green mysteries:

One with the birds and the bees,

One with the squirrel and quail,

Night, and the stream’s melodies —

Ho, for the pack and the trail!

Pictures and music and teas,

Theaters – books even – stale.

Ho, for the smell of the trees!

Ho, for the pack and the trail!