|
Главная • Биографии • Стихи по темам • Случайное стихотворение • Переводчики • Ссылки • Антологии Рейтинг поэтов • Рейтинг стихотворений |
|
Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Monument-Maker I chiselled her monument To my mind’s content, Took it to the church by night, When her planet was at its height, And set it where I had figured the place in the daytime. Having niched it there I stepped back, cheered, and thought its outlines fair, And its marbles rare. Then laughed she over my shoulder as in our Maytime: ‘It spells not me!’ she said: ‘Tells nothing about my beauty, wit, or gay time With all those, quick and dead, Of high or lowlihead, That hovered near, Including you, who carve there your devotion; But you felt none, my dear!’ And then she vanished. Checkless sprang my emotion And forced a tear At seeing I’d not been truly known by her, And never prized! – that my memorial here, To consecrate her sepulchre, Was scorned, almost, By her sweet ghost: Yet I hoped not quite, in her very innermost! 1916 Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1377 |
||
Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |