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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) On Stinsford Hill at Midnight I glimpsed a woman’s muslined form Sing-songing airily Against the moon; and still she sang, And took no heed of me. Another trice, and I beheld What first I had not scanned, That now and then she tapped and shook A timbrel in her hand. So late the hour, so white her drape, So strange the look it lent To that blank hill, I could not guess What phantastry it meant. Then burst I forth: ‘Why such from you? Are you so happy now?’ Her voice swam on; nor did she show Thought of me anyhow. I called again: ‘Come nearer; much That kind of note I need!’ The song kept softening, loudening on, In placid calm unheed. ‘What home is yours now?’ then I said; ‘You seem to have no care.’ But the wild wavering tune went forth As if I had not been there. ‘This world is dark, and where you are,’ I said, ‘I cannot be!’ But still the happy one sang on, And had no heed of me. NOTE. – It was said that she belonged to a body of religious enthusiasts. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1498 |
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