Florence Earle Coates (Флоренс Эрл Коутс)

An Idler

She cannot wind the distaff,
⁠     She can nor bake nor brew;
Her hands are indeed too dainty
⁠     Such labors to pursue.

She cares not to follow the harvest,
⁠     She neither can sow nor glean,
But waits for the weary reapers
     ⁠With cheerful calm serene.

Commanding all to serve her,
     ⁠From service she is free;
But, ah, my babe so helpless
⁠     Is health and wealth to me!

1. Let Me Believe
2. Love Sailed at Morn
3. By the Conemaugh
4. First and Last
5. To the Tsar (1890)

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1444

Последние стихотворения

To English version