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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) * * * (B.F.L.) ‘Nothing matters much,’ he said Of something just befallen unduly: He, then active, but now dead, Truly, truly! He knew the letter of the law As voiced by those of wig and gown, Whose slightest syllogistic flaw He hammered down. And often would he shape in word That nothing needed much lamenting; And she who sat there smiled and heard, Sadly assenting. Facing the North Sea now he lies, Toward the red altar of the East, The Flamborough roar his psalmodies, The wind his priest. And while I think of his bleak bed, Of Time that builds, of Time that shatters, Lost to all thought is he, who said ‘Nothing much matters.’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1331 |
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