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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) * * * Not only I Am doomed awhile to lie In this close bin with earthen sides; But the things I thought, and the songs I sang, And the hopes I had, and the passioned pang For people I knew Who passed before me, Whose memory barely abides; And the visions I drew That daily upbore me! And the joyous springs and summers, And the jaunts with blithe newcomers, And my plans and appearances; drives and rides That fanned my face to a lively red; And the grays and blues Of the far-off views, That nobody else discerned outspread; And little achievements for blame or praise; Things left undone; things left unsaid; In brief, my days! Compressed here in six feet by two, In secrecy To lie with me Till the Call shall be, Are all these things I knew, Which cannot be handed on; Strange happenings quite unrecorded, Lost to the world and disregarded, That only thinks: ‘Here moulders till Doom’s-dawn A woman’s skeleton.’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1536 |
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