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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Sunshade Ah – it’s the skeleton of a lady’s sunshade, Here at my feet in the hard rock’s chink, Merely a naked sheaf of wires! – Twenty years have gone with their livers and diers Since it was silked in its white or pink. Noonshine riddles the ribs of the sunshade, No more a screen from the weakest ray; Nothing to tell us the hue of its dyes, Nothing but rusty bones as it lies In its coffin of stone, unseen till to-day. Where is the woman who carried that sunshade Up and down this seaside place? – Little thumb standing against its stem, Thoughts perhaps bent on a love-stratagem, Softening yet more the already soft face! Is the fair woman who carried that sunshade A skeleton just as her property is, Laid in the chink that none may scan? And does she regret – if regret dust can – The vain things thought when she flourished this? Swanage Cliffs Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1485 |
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