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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) A Question of Marriage ‘I yield you my whole heart, Countess,’ said he; ‘Come, Dear, and be queen of my studio.’ ‘No, sculptor. You’re merely my friend,’ said she: ‘We dine our artists; but marry them – no.’ ‘Be it thus,’ he replied. And his love, so strong, He subdued as a stoic should. Anon He wived some damsel who’d loved him long, Of lineage noteless; and chiselled on. And a score years passed. As a master-mind The world made much of his marching fame, And his wife’s little charms, with his own entwined, Won day after day increased acclaim. The countess-widow had closed with a mate In rank and wealth of her own degree, And they moved among the obscurely great Of an order that had no novelty. And oldening – neither with blame nor praise – Their stately lives begot no stir, And she saw that when death should efface her days All men would abandon thought of her; And said to herself full gloomily: ‘Far better for me had it been to shine The wench of a genius such as he Than rust as the wife of a spouse like mine!’ Thomas Hardy's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1384 |
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