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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) Unkept Good Fridays There are many more Good Fridays Than this, if we but knew The names, and could relate them, Of men whom rulers slew For their goodwill, and date them As runs the twelvemonth through. These nameless Christs’ Good Fridays, Whose virtues wrought their end, Bore days of bonds and burning, With no man to their friend, Of mockeries, and spurning; Yet they are all unpenned. When they had their Good Fridays Of bloody sweat and strain Oblivion hides. We quote not Their dying words of pain, Their sepulchres we note not, Unwitting where they have lain. No annual Good Fridays Gained they from cross and cord, From being sawn asunder, Disfigured and abhorred, Smitten and trampled under: Such dates no hands have scored. Let be. Let lack Good Fridays These Christs of unwrit names; The world was not even worthy To taunt their hopes and aims, As little of earth, earthy, As his mankind proclaims. Good Friday, 1927 Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1388 |
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