Nicholas Nye By WALTER DE LA MARE Thistle and darnel and dock grew there, And a bush, in the corner, of may, On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day ; Half asleep and half awake, While the birds went twittering by, And nobody there my lone to share But Nicholas Nye. Nicholas Nye was lean and grey, Lame of a leg and old, More than a score of donkey's years He had seen since he was foaled ; He munched the thistles, purple and spiked, Would sometimes stoop and sigh, And turn his head, as if he said, "Poor Nicholas Nye!" Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow, Lazily swinging his tail, At break of day he used to bray, - Not much too hearty and hale ; But a wonderful gumption was under his skin, And a clear calm light in his eye, And once in a while : he'd smile ... Would Nicholas Nye. Seem to be smiling at me, he would, From his bush in the corner, of may, - Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn, Knobble kneed, lonely and grey...