Читать книгу Late Lyrics and Earlier, With Many Other Verses - Thomas Hardy, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 14

When moiling seems at cease

   In the vague void of night-time,

   And heaven’s wide roomage stormless

   Between the dusk and light-time,

   And fear at last is formless,

We call the allurement Peace.

Peace, this hid riot, Change,

   This revel of quick-cued mumming,

   This never truly being,

   This evermore becoming,

   This spinner’s wheel onfleeing

Outside perception’s range.