Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
The Bird-Catcher’s Boy
‘Father, I fear your trade: Surely it’s wrong! Little birds limed and made Captive life-long. ‘Larks bruise and bleed in jail, Trying to rise; Every caged nightingale Soon pines and dies.’ ‘Don’t be a dolt, my boy! Birds must be caught; My lot is such employ, Yours to be taught. ‘Soft shallow stuff as that Out from your head! Just learn your lessons pat, Then off to bed.’ Lightless, without a word Bedwise he fares; Groping his way is heard Seek the dark stairs.
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