«Hawthorn White, Hawthorn Red» by Charles Causley
«Hawthorn White, Hawthorn Red» Hawthorn White, Hawthorn Red, hanging in the Garden, at My head, tell Me simple, tell Me true, when comes the Winter, what must I do? I have a House, with Chimneys Four, I have a Silver Bell on the Door, a Single Hearth, and a single Bed, Not enough, the Hawthorn said. I have a Lute, I have a Lyre, I have a Yellow Cat by My Fire, A Nightingale , to my Tree, is tied, that Bird looks sick, The Hawthorn sighed. I write on Paper, pure as Milk, I lie on Sheets, of Shantung … Читать далее →
