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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) * * * (The same thought resumed) So, Time, Royal, sublime; Heretofore held to be Master and enemy, Thief of my Love’s adornings, Despoiling her to scornings: – The sound philosopher Now sets him to aver You are nought But a thought Without reality. Young, old, Passioned, cold, All the loved-lost thus Are beings continuous, In dateless dure abiding, Over the present striding With placid permanence That knows not transience: Firm in the Vast, First, last; Afar, yet close to us. Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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