Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
An Unkindly May
A shepherd stands by a gate in a white smock-frock: He holds the gate ajar, intently counting his flock. The sour spring wind is blurting boisterous-wise, And bears on it dirty clouds across the skies; Plantation timbers creak like rusty cranes, And pigeons and rooks, dishevelled by late rains, Are like gaunt vultures, sodden and unkempt, And song-birds do not end what they attempt: The buds have tried to open, but quite failing Have pinched themselves together in their quailing. The sun frowns whitely in eye-trying flaps Through passing cloud-holes, mimicking audible taps. ‘Nature, you’re not commendable to-day!’ I think. ‘Better to-morrow!’ she seems to say. That shepherd still stands in that white smock-frock, Unnoting all things save the counting his flock.
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