Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

On a Midsummer Eve

I idly cut a parsley stalk,
And blew therein towards the moon;
I had not thought what ghosts would walk
With shivering footsteps to my tune.

I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand
As if to drink, into the brook,
And a faint figure seemed to stand
Above me, with the bygone look.

I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice,
I thought not what my words might be;
There came into my ear a voice
That turned a tenderer verse for me.

1. The End of the Episode
2. The Pair He Saw Pass
3. The Seven Times
4. Tragedian to Tragedienne
5. Nobody Comes

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1804

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