Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
He Inadvertently Cures His Love-Pains
Song I said: ‘O let me sing the praise Of her who sweetly racks my days, – Her I adore; Her lips, her eyes, her moods, her ways!’ In miseries of pulse and pang I strung my harp, and straightway sang As none before: – To wondrous words my quavers rang! Thus I let heartaches lilt my verse, Which suaged and soothed, and made disperse The smarts I bore To stagnance like a sepulchre’s. But, eased, the days that thrilled ere then Lost value; and I ask, O when, And how, restore Those old sweet agonies again!
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