Nicholas Nye. by Walter de la Mare

[simone-remy.livejournal.com]

Thistle and Darnel and dock grew there,
And a bush in the corner of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl
In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake,
While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my lone to share
But Nicholas Nye.

Nicholas Nye was lean and grey,
Lame of a leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years
He has seen since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn his head, as if he said,
'Poor Nicholas Nye!'

Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow,
Lazily swinging his tail,
At break of day he used to bray -
Not much too hearty and hale;
But a wonderful gumption was under his skin,
And a clean calm light in his eye,
And once in a while, he'd smile -
Would Nicholas Nye.

Seem to be smiling at me he would,
From his bush, in the corner, of may -
Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn,
Knobble-kneed, lonely and grey;
And over the grass would seem to pass
'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky,
Something much better than words between me
And Nicholas Nye.

But dusk would come in the apple boughs,
The green of the glow worms shine,
The birds in nest would crouch to rest,
And home I'd trudge to mine;
And there, in the moonlight, dark with dew,
Asking not wherefore or why,
Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post,
Old Nicholas Nye.

Comments

[elenbarathi.livejournal.com]

Ah, I always loved this one, but so sad. Poor Nicholas Nye.