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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) Where the Picnic Was Where we made the fire In the summer time Of branch and briar On the hill to the sea, I slowly climb Through winter mire, And scan and trace The forsaken place Quite readily. Now a cold wind blows, And the grass is gray, But the spot still shows As a burnt circle – aye, And stick-ends, charred, Still strew the sward Whereon I stand, Last relic of the band Who came that day! Yes, I am here Just as last year, And the sea breathes brine From its strange straight line Up hither, the same As when we four came. – But two have wandered far From this grassy rise Into urban roar Where no picnics are, And one – has shut her eyes For evermore. Thomas Hardy's other poems:
Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1787 |
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