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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Yellow-Hammer When, towards the summer’s close, Lanes are dry, And unclipt the hedgethorn rows, There we fly! While the harvest waggons pass With their load, Shedding corn upon the grass By the road. In a flock we follow them, On and on, Seize a wheat-ear by the stem, And are gone... With our funny little song, Thus you may Often see us flit along, Day by day. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1472 |
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