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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) * * * I thought, my Heart, that you had healed Of those sore smartings of the past, And that the summers had oversealed All mark of them at last. But closely scanning in the night I saw them standing crimson-bright Just as she made them: Nothing could fade them; Yea, I can swear That there they were – They still were there! Then the Vision of her who cut them came, And looking over my shoulder said, ‘I am sure you deal me all the blame For those sharp smarts and red; But meet me, dearest, to-morrow night, In the churchyard at the moon’s half-height, And so strange a kiss Shall be mine, I wis, That you’ll cease to know If the wounds you show Be there or no!’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1358 |
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