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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) In Tenebris II Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me... non est qui requirat animam meam.’ – PS. CXLI When the clouds’ swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long, And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear, The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here. The stout upstanders say, All’s well with us: ruers have nought to rue! And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true? Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career, Till I think I am one born out of due time, who has no calling here. Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their evenings all that is sweet; Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet, And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear; Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here?... Let him in whose ears the low-voiced Best is killed by the clash of the First, Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst, Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear, Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here. 1895–96 Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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