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448 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Ochone ! my thoughts are wild :
But little blame I say ; An ould man hungerin' for his child,
Fishin' the livelong day.
You will not run again,
Laughin' to see me land. Oh, what was pain an' throuble then,
Holdin' your little hand ?
Or when your head let fall Its soft curls on my breast ?
Why do the childher grow at all To love the stranger best ? |
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AUGUST WEATHER
D
EAD heat and windless air, And silence over all; Never a leaf astir, But the ripe apples fall; Plums are purple-red,
Pears amber and brown; Thud7 in the garden-bed Ripe apples fall down.
Air like a cider-press
With the bruised apples' scent; Low whistles express
Some sleepy bird's content; Still world and windless sky,
A mist of heat o'er all; Peace like a lullaby,
And the ripe apples fall. |
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