Томас Гарди (Харди) (Thomas Hardy)

Her Apotheosis

  ‘Secretum meum mihi’ 
  (Faded Woman’s Song)

There were years vague of measure,
Needless the asking when;
No honours, praises, pleasure
Reached common maids from men.

And hence no lures bewitched them,
No hand was stretched to raise,
No gracious gifts enriched them,
No voices sang their praise.

Yet an iris at that season
Amid the accustomed slight
From denseness, dull unreason,
Ringed me with living light.

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