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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Woman in the Rye ‘Why do you stand in the dripping rye, Cold-lipped, unconscious, wet to the knee, When there are firesides near?’ said I. ‘I told him I wished him dead,’ said she. ‘Yea, cried it in my haste to one Whom I had loved, whom I well loved still; And die he did. And I hate the sun, And stand here lonely, aching, chill; ‘Stand waiting, waiting under skies That blow reproach, the while I see The rooks sheer off to where he lies Wrapt in a peace withheld from me!’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1329 |
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