Garadh
P
Padraic Colum
0
الورقة الذهبية
FOR the poor body that I own
I could weep many a tear:
The days have stolen flesh and bone,
And left a changeling here.
Four feeble bones are left to me,
And the basket of my breast,
And I am mean and ugly now
As the scald flung from the nest.
The briars drag me at the knee,
The brambles go within,
And often do I feel him turn,
The old man in my skin.
The strength is carded from my bones,
The swiftness drained from me,
And all the living thoughts I had
Are like far ships at sea!
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