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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Sexton at Longpuddle He passes down the churchyard track On his way to toll the bell; And stops, and looks at the graves around, And notes each finished and greening mound Complacently, As their shaper he, And one who can do it well, And, with a prosperous sense of his doing, Thinks he’ll not lack Plenty such work in the long ensuing Futurity. For people will always die, And he will always be nigh To shape their cell. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1374 |
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