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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) Concerning Agnes I am stopped from hoping what I have hoped before – Yes, many a time! – To dance with that fair woman yet once more As in the prime Of August, when the wide-faced moon looked through The boughs at the faery lamps of the Larmer Avenue. I could not, though I should wish, have over again That old romance, And sit apart in the shade as we sat then After the dance The while I held her hand, and, to the booms Of contrabassos, feet still pulsed from the distant rooms. I could not. And you do not ask me why. Hence you infer That what may chance to the fairest under the sky Has chanced to her. Yes. She lies white, straight, features marble-keen, Unapproachable, mute, in a nook I have never seen. There she may rest like some vague goddess, shaped As out of snow; Say Aphrodite sleeping; or bedraped Like Kalupso; Or Amphitrite stretched on the Mid-sea swell, Or one of the Nine grown stiff from thought. I cannot tell! Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1462 |
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