The Walkers
(He speaks.)
Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!
Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;
Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking,
Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie;
Marveling at all things —windmills gaily turning,
Apples for the cider—press, ruby—hued and gold;
Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning,
Wedge of geese high—flying in the sky’s clear cold,
Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling;
Home again returning, hungry as a hawk;
Whistling up the garden, ruddy—cheeked and sparkling,
Oh, but I am happy as I walk, walk, walk!
(She speaks.)
Walking, walking, oh, the curse of walking!
Slouching round the grim square, shuffling up the street,
Slinking down the by—way, all my graces hawking,
Offering my body to each man I meet.
Peering in the gin—shop where the lads are drinking,
Trying to look gay—like, crazy with the blues;
Halting in a doorway, shuddering and shrinking
(Oh, my draggled feather and my thin, wet shoes).
Here’s a drunken drover: “Hullo, there, old dearie!”
No, he only curses, can’t be got to talk. . . .
On and on till daylight, famished, wet and weary,
God in Heaven help me as I walk, walk, walk!
Altre opere di Robert W. Service...
