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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) News for her Mother I One mile more is Where your door is, Mother mine! – Harvest’s coming, Mills are strumming, Apples fine, And the cider made to-year will be as wine. II Yet, not viewing What’s a-doing Here around Is it thrills me, And so fills me That I bound Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground. III Tremble not now At your lot now, Silly soul! Hosts have sped them Quick to wed them, Great and small, Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole. IV Yet I wonder, Will it sunder Her from me? Will she guess that I said ‘Yes,’ – that His I’d be, Ere I thought she might not see him as I see! V Old brown gable, Granary, stable, Here you are! O my mother, Can another Ever bar Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar? Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1369 |
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