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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) Doom and She I There dwells a mighty pair – Slow, statuesque, intense – Amid the vague Immense: None can their chronicle declare, Nor why they be, nor whence. II Mother of all things made, Matchless in artistry, Unlit with sight is she. – And though her ever well-obeyed Vacant of feeling he. III The Matron mildly asks – A throb in every word – ‘Our clay-made creatures, lord, How fare they in their mortal tasks Upon Earth’s bounded bord? IV ‘The fate of those I bear, Dear lord, pray turn and view, And notify me true; Shapings that eyelessly I dare Maybe I would undo. V ‘Sometimes from lairs of life Methinks I catch a groan, Or multitudinous moan, As though I had schemed a world of strife, Working by touch alone.’ VI ‘World-weaver!’ he replies, ‘I scan all thy domain; But since nor joy nor pain It lies in me to recognize, Thy questionings are vain. VII ‘World-weaver! what is Grief? And what are Right, and Wrong, And Feeling, that belong To creatures all who owe thee fief? Why is Weak worse than Strong?’ . . . VIII – Unanswered, curious, meek, She broods in sad surmise. . . . – Some say they have heard her sighs On Alpine height or Polar peak When the night tempests rise. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1703 |
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