Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

The Sundial on a Wet Day

I drip, drip here
In Atlantic rain,
Falling like handfuls
Of winnowed grain,
Which, tear-like, down
My gnomon drain,
And dim my numerals
With their stain, –
Till I feel useless,
And wrought in vain!

And then I think
In my despair
That, though unseen,
He is still up there,
And may gaze out
Anywhen, anywhere;
Not to help clockmen
Quiz and compare,
But in kindness to let me
My trade declare.

St Juliot

1. If You Had Known
2. Our Old Friend Dualism
3. When Oats Were Reaped
4. Paying Calls
5. The Shadow on the Stone

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1983

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