Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

The Bird-Catcher’s Boy

‘Father, I fear your trade:
Surely it’s wrong!
Little birds limed and made
Captive life-long.

‘Larks bruise and bleed in jail,
Trying to rise;
Every caged nightingale
Soon pines and dies.’

‘Don’t be a dolt, my boy!
Birds must be caught;
My lot is such employ,
Yours to be taught.

‘Soft shallow stuff as that
Out from your head!
Just learn your lessons pat,
Then off to bed.’

Lightless, without a word
Bedwise he fares;
Groping his way is heard
Seek the dark stairs.

1. The End of the Episode
2. On One Who Lived and Died Where He Was Born
3. On a Discovered Curl of Hair
4. The Three Tall Men
5. The Month’s Calendar

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1755

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