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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Bedridden Peasant To an Unknowing God Much wonder I – here long low-laid – That this dead wall should be Betwixt the Maker and the made, Between Thyself and me! For, say one puts a child to nurse, He eyes it now and then To know if better it is, or worse, And if it mourn, and when. But Thou, Lord, giv’st us men our day In helpless bondage thus To Time and Chance, and seem’st straightway To think no more of us! That some disaster cleft Thy scheme And tore us wide apart, So that no cry can cross, I deem; For Thou art mild of heart, And wouldst not shape and shut us in Where voice can not be heard: Plainly Thou meant’st that we should win Thy succour by a word. Might but Thy sense flash down the skies Like man’s from clime to clime, Thou wouldst not let me agonize Through my remaining time; But, seeing how much Thy creatures bear – Lame, starved, or maimed, or blind – Wouldst heal the ills with quickest care Of me and all my kind. Then, since Thou mak’st not these things be, But these things dost not know, I’ll praise Thee as were shown to me The mercies Thou wouldst show! Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1360 |
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