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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) End of the Year 1912 You were here at his young beginning, You are not here at his agèd end; Off he coaxed you from Life’s mad spinning, Lest you should see his form extend Shivering, sighing, Slowly dying, And a tear on him expend. So it comes that we stand lonely In the star-lit avenue, Dropping broken lipwords only, For we hear no songs from you, Such as flew here For the new year Once, while six bells swung thereto. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1586 |
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