Читать книгу Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces - Thomas Hardy, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 13

   If ever joy leave

An abiding sting of sorrow,

So befell it on the morrow

   Of that May eve.

   The travelled sun dropped

To the north-west, low and lower,

The pony’s trot grew slower,

   And then we stopped.

   “This cosy house just by

I must call at for a minute,

A sick man lies within it

   Who soon will die.

   “He wished to marry me,

So I am bound, when I drive near him,

To inquire, if but to cheer him,

   How he may be.”

   A message was sent in,

And wordlessly we waited,

Till some one came and stated

   The bulletin.

   And that the sufferer said,

For her call no words could thank her;

As his angel he must rank her

   Till life’s spark fled.

   Slowly we drove away,

When I turned my head, although not

Called; why so I turned I know not

   Even to this day.

   And lo, there in my view

Pressed against an upper lattice

Was a white face, gazing at us

   As we withdrew.

   And well did I divine

It to be the man’s there dying,

Who but lately had been sighing

   For her pledged mine.

   Then I deigned a deed of hell;

It was done before I knew it;

What devil made me do it

   I cannot tell!

   Yes, while he gazed above,

I put my arm about her

That he might see, nor doubt her

   My plighted Love.

   The pale face vanished quick,

As if blasted, from the casement,

And my shame and self-abasement

   Began their prick.

   And they prick on, ceaselessly,

For that stab in Love’s fierce fashion

Which, unfired by lover’s passion,

   Was foreign to me.

   She smiled at my caress,

But why came the soft embowment

Of her shoulder at that moment

   She did not guess.

   Long long years has he lain

In thy garth, O sad Saint Cleather:

What tears there, bared to weather,

   Will cleanse that stain!

   Love is long-suffering, brave,

Sweet, prompt, precious as a jewel;

But O, too, Love is cruel,

   Cruel as the grave.