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. Paying Calls
2. I Found Her Out There
3. The Wind’s Prophecy
4. The Collector Cleans His Picture
5. When Dead

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