Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

In a Whispering Gallery

That whisper takes the voice
Of a Spirit’s compassionings,
Close, but invisible,
And throws me under a spell
At the kindling vision it brings;
And for a moment I rejoice,
And believe in transcendent things
That would mould from this muddy earth
A spot for the splendid birth
Of everlasting lives,
Whereto no night arrives;
And this gaunt gray gallery
A tabernacle of worth
On this drab-aired afternoon,
When you can barely see
Across its hazed lacune
If opposite aught there be
Of fleshed humanity
Wherewith I may commune;
Or if the voice so near
Be a soul’s voice floating here.

1. The End of the Episode
2. Ten Years Since
3. The Young Churchwarden
4. For Life I Had Never Cared Greatly
5. The Child and the Sage

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1698

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