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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Marble Tablet There it stands, though alas, what a little of her Shows in its cold white look! Not her glance, glide, or smile; not a tittle of her Voice like the purl of a brook; Not her thoughts, that you read like a book. It may stand for her once in November When first she breathed, witless of all; Or in heavy years she would remember When circumstance held her in thrall; Or at last, when she answered her call! Nothing more. The still marble, date-graven, Gives all that it can, tersely lined; That one has at length found the haven Which every one other will find; With silence on what shone behind. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1496 |
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