Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
A Private Man on Public Men
When my contemporaries were driving Their coach through Life with strain and striving, And raking riches into heaps, And ably pleading in the Courts With smart rejoinders and retorts, Or where the Senate nightly keeps Its vigils, till their fames were fanned By rumour’s tongue throughout the land, I lived in quiet, screened, unknown, Pondering upon some stick or stone, Or news of some rare book or bird Latterly bought, or seen, or heard, Not wishing ever to set eyes on The surging crowd beyond the horizon, Tasting years of moderate gladness Mellowed by sundry days of sadness, Shut from the noise of the world without, Hearing but dimly its rush and rout, Unenvying those amid its roar, Little endowed, not wanting more.
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