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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) In a Whispering Gallery That whisper takes the voice Of a Spirit’s compassionings, Close, but invisible, And throws me under a spell At the kindling vision it brings; And for a moment I rejoice, And believe in transcendent things That would mould from this muddy earth A spot for the splendid birth Of everlasting lives, Whereto no night arrives; And this gaunt gray gallery A tabernacle of worth On this drab-aired afternoon, When you can barely see Across its hazed lacune If opposite aught there be Of fleshed humanity Wherewith I may commune; Or if the voice so near Be a soul’s voice floating here. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1485 |
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