Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
On One Who Lived and Died Where He Was Born
When a night in November Blew forth its bleared airs An infant descended His birth-chamber stairs For the very first time, At the still, midnight chime; All unapprehended His mission, his aim. – Thus, first, one November, An infant descended The stairs. On a night in November Of weariful cares, A frail aged figure Ascended those stairs For the very last time: All gone his life’s prime, All vanished his vigour, And fine, forceful frame: Thus, last, one November Ascended that figure Upstairs. On those nights in November – Apart eighty years – The babe and the bent one Who traversed those stairs From the early first time To the last feeble climb – That fresh and that spent one – Were even the same: Yea, who passed in November As infant, as bent one, Those stairs. Wise child of November! From birth to blanched hairs Descending, ascending, Wealth-wantless, those stairs; Who saw quick in time As a vain pantomime Life’s tending, its ending, The worth of its fame. Wise child of November, Descending, ascending Those stairs!
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
903
