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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) * * * You were the sort that men forget; Though I – not yet! – Perhaps not ever. Your slighted weakness Adds to the strength of my regret! You’d not the art – you never had For good or bad – To make men see how sweet your meaning, Which, visible, had charmed them glad. You would, by words inept let fall, Offend them all, Even if they saw your warm devotion Would hold your life’s blood at their call. You lacked the eye to understand Those friends offhand Whose mode was crude, though whose dim purport Outpriced the courtesies of the bland. I am now the only being who Remembers you It may be. What a waste that Nature Grudged soul so dear the art its due! Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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