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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) At the Wicket-Gate There floated the sounds of church-chiming, But no one was nigh, Till there came, as a break in the loneness, Her father, she, I. And we slowly moved on to the wicket, And downlooking stood, Till anon people passed, and amid them We parted for good. Greater, wiser, may part there than we three Who parted there then, But never will Fates colder-featured Hold sway there again. Of the churchgoers through the still meadows No single one knew What a play was played under their eyes there As thence we withdrew. Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1328 |
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Английская поэзия. Адрес для связи eng-poetry.ru@yandex.ru |