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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Dear I plodded to Fairmile Hill-top, where A maiden one fain would guard From every hazard and every care Advanced on the roadside sward. I wondered how succeeding suns Would shape her wayfarings, And wished some Power might take such ones Under Its warding wings. The busy breeze came up the hill And smartened her cheek to red, And frizzled her hair to a haze. With a will ‘Good-morning, my Dear!’ I said. She glanced from me to the far-off gray, And, with proud severity, ‘Good-morning to you – though I may say I am not your Dear,’ quoth she: ‘For I am the Dear of one not here – One far from his native land!’ – And she passed me by; and I did not try To make her understand. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1480 |
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