|
Главная • Биографии • Стихи по темам • Случайное стихотворение • Переводчики • Ссылки • Антологии Рейтинг поэтов • Рейтинг стихотворений |
|
Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) She, to Him. 4 This love puts all humanity from me; I can but maledict her, pray her dead, For giving love and getting love of thee – Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed! How much I love I know not, life not known, Save as one unit I would add love by; But this I know, my being is but thine own – Fused from its separateness by ecstasy. And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes; Canst thou then hate me as an envier Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize? Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier The more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise. 1866 Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1458 |
||
Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |