Читать книгу Poems - William Ernest Henley - Страница 12

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Some three, or five, or seven, and thirty years;

A Roman nose; a dimpling double-chin;

Dark eyes and shy that, ignorant of sin,

Are yet acquainted, it would seem, with tears;

A comely shape; a slim, high-coloured hand,

Graced, rather oddly, with a signet ring;

A bashful air, becoming everything;

A well-bred silence always at command.

Her plain print gown, prim cap, and bright steel chain

Look out of place on her, and I remain

Absorbed in her, as in a pleasant mystery.

Quick, skilful, quiet, soft in speech and touch …

‘Do you like nursing?’ ‘Yes, Sir, very much.’

Somehow, I rather think she has a history.