[Тротски]

Running to Paradise W.B.Yeats



As I came over Windy Gap

They threw a halfpenny into my cap,

For I am running to Paradise;

And all that I need do is to wish

And somebody puts his hand into dish

To throw me a bit of salted fish:

And there the king is but as the beggar.



My brother Mourteen is worn out

In skelping his big brawling lout,

And I am running to Paradise;

A poor life, do what he can,

And though he keep a dog and a gun,

A serving-maid and a serving-man:

And there the king is but as the beggar.



Poor men have grown to be rich men,

And rich men grown to be poor again,

And I am running to Paradise;

And many a darling wit's grown dull

That tossed a bare heel when at school

Now it has filled an old sock full:

And there the king is but as the beggar.



The wind is old and still at play

While I must hurry upon my way,

For I am running to Paradise;

Yet never have I lit on a friend

To take my fancy like the wind

That nobody can buy or bind:

And there the king is but as the beggar.