Читать книгу Late Lyrics and Earlier, With Many Other Verses - Thomas Hardy, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 22

I sang that song on Sunday,

   To witch an idle while,

I sang that song on Monday,

   As fittest to beguile;

I sang it as the year outwore,

      And the new slid in;

I thought not what might shape before

   Another would begin.

I sang that song in summer,

   All unforeknowingly,

To him as a new-comer

   From regions strange to me:

I sang it when in afteryears

      The shades stretched out,

And paths were faint; and flocking fears

   Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.

Sings he that song on Sundays

   In some dim land afar,

On Saturdays, or Mondays,

   As when the evening star

Glimpsed in upon his bending face

      And my hanging hair,

And time untouched me with a trace

   Of soul-smart or despair?