Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

The Ballet

They crush together – a rustling heap of flesh –
Of more than flesh, a heap of souls; and then
They part, enmesh,
And crush together again,
Like the pink petals of a too sanguine rose
Frightened shut just when it blows.

Though all alike in their tinsel livery,
And indistinguishable at a sweeping glance,
They muster, maybe,
As lives wide in irrelevance;
A world of her own has each one underneath,
Detached as a sword from its sheath.

Daughters, wives, mistresses; honest or false, sold, bought;
Hearts of all sizes; gay, fond, gushing, or penned,
Various in thought
Of lover, rival, friend;
Links in a one-pulsed chain, all showing one smile,
Yet severed so many a mile!

1. On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth
2. The Month’s Calendar
3. The Dead Bastard
4. In Death Divided
5. Paths of Former Time

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