Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
He Fears His Good Fortune
There was a glorious time At an epoch of my prime; Mornings beryl-bespread, And evenings golden-red; Nothing gray: And in my heart I said, ‘However this chanced to be, It is too full for me, Too rare, too rapturous, rash, Its spell must close with a crash Some day!’ The radiance went on Anon and yet anon, And sweetness fell around Like manna on the ground. ‘I’ve no claim,’ Said I, ‘to be thus crowned: I am not worthy this: – Must it not go amiss? – Well... let the end foreseen Come duly! – I am serene.’ – And it came.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
917
