« PředchozíPokračovat »
native Maker, and be read by my own countryfolk in our own dying language: an ambition surely rather of the heart than of the head, so restricted as it is in prospect of endurance, so parochial in bounds of space.
O, little book, and wish to all
Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall,
A bin of wine, a spice of wit,
A house with lawns enclosing it,
A SONG OF THE ROAD
HE gauger walked with willing foot, And aye the gauger played the flute; And what should Master Gauger play But Over the hills and far away?
Whene'er I buckle on my pack
You go with me the self-same way —
It is the tune to travel to.
For who would gravely set his face