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.

1. The Prophetess
2. After the Death of a Friend
3. ‘A Gentleman’s Second-Hand Suit’
4. The Second Visit
5. I Rose Up as My Custom Is

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1822

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