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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) At Waking When night was lifting, And dawn had crept under its shade, Amid cold clouds drifting Dead-white as a corpse outlaid, With a sudden scare I seemed to behold My Love in bare Hard lines unfold. Yea, in a moment, An insight that would not die Killed her old endowment Of charm that had capped all nigh, Which vanished to none Like the gilt of a cloud, And showed her but one Of the common crowd. She seemed but a sample Of earth’s poor average kind, Lit up by no ample Enrichments of mien or mind. I covered my eyes As to cover the thought, And unrecognize What the morn had taught. O vision appalling When the one believed-in thing Is seen falling, falling, With all to which hope can cling. Off: it is not true; For it cannot be That the prize I drew Is a blank to me! Weymouth, 1869 Thomas Hardy's other poems: Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием): Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1334 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |