Читать книгу Wessex Poems and Other Verses - Thomas Hardy, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 18

Beneath a knap where flown

Nestlings play,

Within walls of weathered stone,

Far away

From the files of formal houses,

By the bough the firstling browses,

Lives a Sweet: no merchants meet,

No man barters, no man sells

Where she dwells.

Upon that fabric fair

“Here is she!”

Seems written everywhere

Unto me.

But to friends and nodding neighbours,

Fellow-wights in lot and labours,

Who descry the times as I,

No such lucid legend tells

Where she dwells.

Should I lapse to what I was

Ere we met;

(Such can not be, but because

Some forget

Let me feign it) – none would notice

That where she I know by rote is

Spread a strange and withering change,

Like a drying of the wells

Where she dwells.

To feel I might have kissed —

Loved as true —

Otherwhere, nor Mine have missed

My life through.

Had I never wandered near her,

Is a smart severe – severer

In the thought that she is nought,

Even as I, beyond the dells

Where she dwells.

And Devotion droops her glance

To recall

What bond-servants of Chance

We are all.

I but found her in that, going

On my errant path unknowing,

I did not out-skirt the spot

That no spot on earth excels,

– Where she dwells!