Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
A Nightmare, and the Next Thing
On this decline of Christmas Day The empty street is fogged and blurred: The house-fronts all seem backwise turned As if the outer world were spurned: Voices and songs within are heard, Whence red rays gleam when fires are stirred, Upon this nightmare Christmas Day. The lamps, just lit, begin to outloom Like dandelion-globes in the gloom; The stonework, shop-signs, doors, look bald; Curious crude details seem installed, And show themselves in their degrees As they were personalities Never discerned when the street was bustling With vehicles, and farmers hustling. Three clammy casuals wend their way To the Union House. I hear one say: ‘Jimmy, this is a treat! Hay-hay!’ Six laughing mouths, six rows of teeth, Six radiant pairs of eyes, beneath Six yellow hats, looking out at the back Of a waggonette on its slowed-down track Up the steep street to some gay dance, Suddenly interrupt my glance. They do not see a gray nightmare Astride the day, or anywhere.
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