Читать книгу Poems of To-Day: an Anthology - Various - Страница 20

  His wage of rest at nightfall still

    He takes, who sixty years has known

  Of ploughing over Cotsall hill

    And keeping trim the Cotsall stone.

  He meditates the dusk, and sees

    Folds of his wonted shepherdings

  And lands of stubble and tall trees

    Becoming insubstantial things.

  And does he see on Cotsall hill—

    Thrown even to the central shire—

  The funnelled shapes forbidding still

    The stranger from his cottage fire?