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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) A New Year’s Eve in War Time I Phantasmal fears, And the flap of the flame, And the throb of the clock, And a loosened slate, And the blind night’s drone, Which tiredly the spectral pines intone! II And the blood in my ears Strumming always the same, And the gable-cock With its fitful grate, And myself, alone. III The twelfth hour nears Hand-hid, as in shame; I undo the lock, And listen, and wait For the Young Unknown. IV In the dark there careers – As if Death astride came To numb all with his knock – A horse at mad rate Over rut and stone. V No figure appears, No call of my name, No sound but ‘Tic-toc’ Without check. Past the gate It clatters – is gone. VI What rider it bears There is none to proclaim; And the Old Year has struck, And, scarce animate, The New makes moan. VII Maybe that ‘More Tears! – More Famine and Flame – More Severance and Shock!’ Is the order from Fate That the Rider speeds on To pale Europe; and tiredly the pines intone. 1915–1916 Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1611 |
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