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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Month’s Calendar Tear off the calendar Of this month past, And all its weeks, that are Flown, to be cast To oblivion fast! Darken that day On which we met, With its words of gay Half-felt regret That you’ll forget! The second day, too; The noon I nursed Well – thoughts; yes, through To the thirty-first; That was the worst. For then it was You let me see There was good cause Why you could not be Aught ever to me! Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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