您的位置 : 首页 > 英文著作
Sword Blades & Poppy Seed
sword blades   The Foreigner
Amy Lowell
下载:Sword Blades & Poppy Seed.txt
本书全文检索:
       Have at you, you Devils!
         My back's to this tree,
       For you're nothing so nice
         That the hind-side of me
       Would escape your assault.
         Come on now, all three!
       Here's a dandified gentleman,
         Rapier at point,
       And a wrist which whirls round
         Like a circular joint.
       A spatter of blood, man!
         That's just to anoint
       And make supple your limbs.
         'Tis a pity the silk
       Of your waistcoat is stained.
         Why! Your heart's full of milk,
       And so full, it spills over!
         I'm not of your ilk.
       You said so, and laughed
         At my old-fashioned hose,
       At the cut of my hair,
         At the length of my nose.
       To carve it to pattern
         I think you propose.
       Your pardon, young Sir,
         But my nose and my sword
       Are proving themselves
         In quite perfect accord.
       I grieve to have spotted
         Your shirt. On my word!
       And hullo! You Bully!
         That blade's not a stick
       To slash right and left,
         And my skull is too thick
       To be cleft with such cuffs
         Of a sword. Now a lick
       Down the side of your face.
         What a pretty, red line!
       Tell the taverns that scar
         Was an honour. Don't whine
       That a stranger has marked you.
         *   *   *   *   *
         The tree's there, You Swine!
       Did you think to get in
         At the back, while your friends
       Made a little diversion
         In front? So it ends,
       With your sword clattering down
         On the ground. 'Tis amends
       I make for your courteous
         Reception of me,
       A foreigner, landed
         From over the sea.
       Your welcome was fervent
         I think you'll agree.
       My shoes are not buckled
         With gold, nor my hair
       Oiled and scented, my jacket's
         Not satin, I wear
       Corded breeches, wide hats,
         And I make people stare!
       So I do, but my heart
         Is the heart of a man,
       And my thoughts cannot twirl
         In the limited span
       'Twixt my head and my heels,
         As some other men's can.
       I have business more strange
         Than the shape of my boots,
       And my interests range
         From the sky, to the roots
       Of this dung-hill you live in,
         You half-rotted shoots
       Of a mouldering tree!
         Here's at you, once more.
       You Apes! You Jack-fools!
         You can show me the door,
       And jeer at my ways,
         But you're pinked to the core.
       And before I have done,
         I will prick my name in
       With the front of my steel,
         And your lily-white skin
       Shall be printed with me.
         For I've come here to win!