Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
A Two-Years’ Idyll
Yes; such it was; Just those two seasons unsought, Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways; Moving, as straws, Hearts quick as ours in those days; Going like wind, too, and rated as nought Save as the prelude to plays Soon to come – larger, life-fraught: Yes; such it was. ‘Nought’ it was called, Even by ourselves – that which springs Out of the years for all flesh, first or last, Commonplace, scrawled Dully on days that go past. Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wings Even in hours overcast: Aye, though this best thing of things, ‘Nought’ it was called! What seems it now? Lost: such beginning was all; Nothing came after: romance straight forsook Quickly somehow Life when we sped from our nook, Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall... – A preface without any book, A trumpet uplipped, but no call; That seems it now.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
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