Читать книгу Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces - Thomas Hardy, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 17

   I shall rot here, with those whom in their day

      You never knew,

   And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay,

      Met not my view,

Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you.

   No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower,

      While earth endures,

   Will fall on my mound and within the hour

      Steal on to yours;

One robin never haunt our two green covertures.

   Some organ may resound on Sunday noons

      By where you lie,

   Some other thrill the panes with other tunes

      Where moulder I;

No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby.

   The simply-cut memorial at my head

      Perhaps may take

   A Gothic form, and that above your bed

      Be Greek in make;

No linking symbol show thereon for our tale’s sake.

   And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-run

      Humanity,

   The eternal tie which binds us twain in one

      No eye will see

Stretching across the miles that sever you from me.