Читать книгу Hazards - Wilfrid Wilson Gibson - Страница 22

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With bended back and nose nigh touching toes,

Down the unending mangel-wurzel rows

All day he goes,

Lifting the roots, and slicing off the tops:

And, even to ease his back, he seldom stops,

Although the copse

That borders the Ten Acre is aflare

In the pale flame of blue November air

With gold more rare

And richly glowing than the dreams that hold

The hungry heart of man with wealth untold

Of fabled gold.

With bended back and nose nigh touching toes,

Down the unending mangel-wurzel rows

Heedless he goes,

Earning a scanty wage with his sharp knife

To feed the hungry brood he and his wife

Have brought to life;

Heedless he goes of birch and beech that hold

For a brief season only wealth untold

Of fabled gold,

That only hold their pride of gold until

The night wind, sweeping down from Wilbury Hill,

Their treasure spill.