BREAD AND CIRCUSES
BREAD AND CIRCUSES
The brook along the Romsey roadWith cresses fringed about,Holds waving fins and streaming weedsAnd bubbles bright as crystal beadsAnd root-bound reaches whither speedsStartled the shadowy trout.As southward runs the Romsey roadThe sunny wind blows harshWith yellow shale and whirling sandsThat sting the faces and the handsOf us who leave the wooded landsOf pleasant Michelmarsh.Where southward runs the Romsey roadSouthward lagged Betsey-JaneClutching my hand, and still the gritLay rough between our fingers, itSmarted on Betsey’s face and knitHer little brows with pain.A bend was in the Romsey road,Shut off by elms the windWas stilled, below a bridge the brookCame dimpling forth, and Betsey shookHer fingers free and ran to look,—I held her frock behind.On the far shore a wag-tail dippedHis beak,—we gazed below,And Betsey was content to standAnd see the trout and hold my hand,And watch them waveabove the sandUntil we turned to go.The brook along the Romsey roadWith cresses fringed aboutRan all day long in Betsey’s head,She played at wag-tails while she fed,And even as she went to bedShe babbled of the trout.
The brook along the Romsey roadWith cresses fringed about,Holds waving fins and streaming weedsAnd bubbles bright as crystal beadsAnd root-bound reaches whither speedsStartled the shadowy trout.As southward runs the Romsey roadThe sunny wind blows harshWith yellow shale and whirling sandsThat sting the faces and the handsOf us who leave the wooded landsOf pleasant Michelmarsh.Where southward runs the Romsey roadSouthward lagged Betsey-JaneClutching my hand, and still the gritLay rough between our fingers, itSmarted on Betsey’s face and knitHer little brows with pain.A bend was in the Romsey road,Shut off by elms the windWas stilled, below a bridge the brookCame dimpling forth, and Betsey shookHer fingers free and ran to look,—I held her frock behind.On the far shore a wag-tail dippedHis beak,—we gazed below,And Betsey was content to standAnd see the trout and hold my hand,And watch them waveabove the sandUntil we turned to go.The brook along the Romsey roadWith cresses fringed aboutRan all day long in Betsey’s head,She played at wag-tails while she fed,And even as she went to bedShe babbled of the trout.
The brook along the Romsey roadWith cresses fringed about,Holds waving fins and streaming weedsAnd bubbles bright as crystal beadsAnd root-bound reaches whither speedsStartled the shadowy trout.
As southward runs the Romsey roadThe sunny wind blows harshWith yellow shale and whirling sandsThat sting the faces and the handsOf us who leave the wooded landsOf pleasant Michelmarsh.
Where southward runs the Romsey roadSouthward lagged Betsey-JaneClutching my hand, and still the gritLay rough between our fingers, itSmarted on Betsey’s face and knitHer little brows with pain.
A bend was in the Romsey road,Shut off by elms the windWas stilled, below a bridge the brookCame dimpling forth, and Betsey shookHer fingers free and ran to look,—I held her frock behind.
On the far shore a wag-tail dippedHis beak,—we gazed below,And Betsey was content to standAnd see the trout and hold my hand,And watch them waveabove the sandUntil we turned to go.
The brook along the Romsey roadWith cresses fringed aboutRan all day long in Betsey’s head,She played at wag-tails while she fed,And even as she went to bedShe babbled of the trout.