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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))


The Wanderer


There is nobody on the road
But I,
And no beseeming abode
I can try
For shelter, so abroad
I must lie.

The stars feel not far up,
And to be
The lights by which I sup
Glimmeringly,
Set out in a hollow cup
Over me.

They wag as though they were
Panting for joy
Where they shine, above all care,
And annoy,
And demons of despair –
Life’s alloy.

Sometimes outside the fence
Feet swing past,
Clock-like, and then go hence,
Till at last
There is a silence, dense,
Deep, and vast.

A wanderer, witch-drawn
To and fro,
To-morrow, at the dawn,
On I go,
And where I rest anon
Do not know!

Yet it’s meet – this bed of hay
And roofless plight;
For there’s a house of clay,
My own, quite,
To roof me soon, all day
And all night.



Thomas Hardy's other poems:
  1. The Wind’s Prophecy
  2. The Flirt’s Tragedy
  3. The Moon Looks In
  4. Voices from Things Growing in a Churchyard
  5. No Bell-Ringing


Poems of other poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):

  • Henry Dobson (Генри Добсон) The Wanderer ("Love comes back to his vacant dwelling")
  • Alan Seeger (Алан Сигер) The Wanderer ("TO SEE the clouds his spirit yearned toward so")
  • Sara Teasdale (Сара Тисдейл) The Wanderer ("I SAW the sunset-colored sands")

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