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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) A Wasted Illness Through vaults of pain, Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness, I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain To dire distress. And hammerings, And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent With webby waxing things and waning things As on I went. "Where lies the end To this foul way?" I asked with weakening breath. Thereon ahead I saw a door extend - The door to death. It loomed more clear: "At last!" I cried. "The all-delivering door!" And then, I knew not how, it grew less near Than theretofore. And back slid I Along the galleries by which I came, And tediously the day returned, and sky, And life--the same. And all was well: Old circumstance resumed its former show, And on my head the dews of comfort fell As ere my woe. I roam anew, Scarce conscious of my late distress . . . And yet Those backward steps through pain I cannot view Without regret. For that dire train Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before, And those grim aisles, must be traversed again To reach that door. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 3495 |
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