Томас Гарди (Харди) (Thomas Hardy)

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  ‘Cogitavi vias meas’

A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire
Made me gaze where it seemed to be:
’Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me
On how I had walked when my sun was higher –
My heart in its arrogancy.

‘You held not to whatsoever was true,’
Said my own voice talking to me:
‘Whatsoever was just you were slack to see;
Kept not things lovely and pure in view,’
Said my own voice talking to me.

‘You slighted her that endureth all,’
Said my own voice talking to me;
‘Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully;
That suffereth long and is kind withal,’
Said my own voice talking to me.

‘You taught not that which you set about,’
Said my own voice talking to me;
‘That the greatest of things is Charity...’
– And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,
And my voice ceased talking to me.

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