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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) Drawing Details in an Old Church I hear the bell-rope sawing, And the oil-less axle grind, As I sit alone here drawing What some Gothic brain designed; And I catch the toll that follows From the lagging bell, Ere it spreads to hills and hollows Where people dwell. I ask not whom it tolls for, Incurious who he be; So, some morrow, when those knolls for One unguessed, sound out for me, A stranger, loitering under In nave or choir, May think, too, ‘Whose, I wonder?’ But not inquire. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1467 |
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