Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

Without, Not Within Her

It was what you bore with you, Woman,
Not inly were,
That throned you from all else human,
However fair!

It was that strange freshness you carried
Into a soul
Whereon no thought of yours tarried
Two moments at all.

And out from his spirit flew death,
And bale, and ban,
Like the corn-chaff under the breath
Of the winnowing-fan.

1. Paying Calls
2. Joys of Memory
3. I Found Her Out There
4. Often When Warring
5. Her Temple

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1947

Последние стихотворения

To English version