Томас Гарди (Харди) (Thomas Hardy)

The Fading Rose

I saw a rose, in bloom, but sad,
Shedding the petals that still it had,
And I heard it say: ‘O where is she
Who used to come and muse on me?

‘The pruner says she comes no more
Because she loves another flower,
The weeder says she’s tired of me
Because I droop so suddenly.

‘Because of a sweetheart she comes not,
Declares the man with the watering-pot;
“She does not come,” says he with the rake,
“Because all women are fickle in make.”

‘He with the spade and humorous leer
Says: “Know, I delve elsewhere than here,
Mid text-writ stones and grassy heaps,
Round which a curious silence creeps.

‘ “She must get to you underground
If any way at all be found,
For, clad in her beauty, marble’s kin,
’Tis there I have laid her and trod her in.” ’

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