Thomas Hardy (Томас Харди)

Drawing Details in an Old Church

I hear the bell-rope sawing,
And the oil-less axle grind,
As I sit alone here drawing
What some Gothic brain designed;
And I catch the toll that follows
From the lagging bell,
Ere it spreads to hills and hollows
Where people dwell.

I ask not whom it tolls for,
Incurious who he be;
So, some morrow, when those knolls for
One unguessed, sound out for me,
A stranger, loitering under
In nave or choir,
May think, too, ‘Whose, I wonder?’
But not inquire.

1. The Bedridden Peasant
2. The Two Rosalinds
3. The Coronation
4. He Prefers Her Earthly
5. The Bridge of Lodi

Распечатать стихотворение (Poem to print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 635

Последние стихотворения

Поддержать сайт

To English version