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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) A Plaint to Man When you slowly emerged from the den of Time, And gained percipience as you grew, And fleshed you fair out of shapeless slime, Wherefore, O Man, did there come to you The unhappy need of creating me – A form like your own – for praying to? My virtue, power, utility, Within my maker must all abide, Since none in myself can ever be, One thin as a phasm on a lantern-slide Shown forth in the dark upon some dim sheet, And by none but its showman vivified. ‘Such a forced device,’ you may say, ‘is meet For easing a loaded heart at whiles: Man needs to conceive of a mercy-seat Somewhere above the gloomy aisles Of this wailful world, or he could not bear The irk no local hope beguiles.’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1741 |
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