Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

To an Actress

I read your name when you were strange to me,
Where it stood blazoned bold with many more;
I passed it vacantly, and did not see
Any great glory in the shape it wore.

O cruelty, the insight barred me then!
Why did I not possess me with its sound,
And in its cadence catch and catch again
Your nature’s essence floating therearound?

Could that man be this I, unknowing you,
When now the knowing you is all of me,
And the old world of then is now a new,
And purpose no more what it used to be –
A thing of formal journeywork, but due
To springs that then were sealed up utterly?

1. A Victorian Rehearsal
2. The Month’s Calendar
3. The Dead Bastard
4. The Orphaned Old Maid
5. Music in a Snowy Street

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