Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))

* * *

We say we shall not meet
Again beneath this sky,
And turn with leaden feet,
Murmuring ‘Good-bye!’

But laugh at how we rued
Our former time’s adieu
When those who went for good
Are met anew.

We talk in lightest vein
On trifles talked before,
And part to meet again,
But meet no more.

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

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1991

Последние стихотворения

To English version