Читать книгу Come Hither: A Collection of Rhymes and Poems for the Young of All Ages - Various - Страница 126

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving:

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,

With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;

Sweet little red feet! why should you die—

Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?

You lived alone in the forest-tree,

Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me?

I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;

Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

John Keats

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