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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) Circus-Rider to Ringmaster When I am riding round the ring no longer, Tell a tale of me; Say, no steed-borne woman’s nerve was stronger Than used mine to be. Let your whole soul say it; do: O it will be true! Should I soon no more be mistress found in Feats I’ve made my own, Trace the tan-laid track you’d whip me round in On the cantering roan: There may cross your eyes again My lithe look as then. Show how I, when clay becomes my cover, Took the high-hoop leap Into your arms, who coaxed and grew my lover, – Ah, to make me weep Since those claspings cared for so Ever so long ago! Though not now as when you freshly knew me, But a fading form, Shape the kiss you’d briskly blow up to me While our love was warm, And my cheek unstained by tears, As in these last years! Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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