Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
A Countenance
Her laugh was not in the middle of her face quite, As a gay laugh springs, It was plain she was anxious about some things I could not trace quite. Her curls were like fir-cones – piled up, brown – Or rather like tight-tied sheaves: It seemed they could never be taken down. . . . And her lips were too full, some might say: I did not think so. Anyway, The shadow her lower one would cast Was green in hue whenever she passed Bright sun on midsummer leaves. Alas, I knew not much of her, And lost all sight and touch of her! If otherwise, should I have minded The shy laugh not in the middle of her mouth quite, And would my kisses have died of drouth quite As love became unblinded?
1884
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