Читать книгу Late Lyrics and Earlier, With Many Other Verses - Thomas Hardy, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 10

I sometimes think as here I sit

   Of things I have done,

Which seemed in doing not unfit

   To face the sun:

Yet never a soul has paused a whit

   On such – not one.

There was that eager strenuous press

   To sow good seed;

There was that saving from distress

   In the nick of need;

There were those words in the wilderness:

   Who cared to heed?

Yet can this be full true, or no?

   For one did care,

And, spiriting into my house, to, fro,

   Like wind on the stair,

Cares still, heeds all, and will, even though

   I may despair.