Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
So Various
You may have met a man – quite young – A brisk-eyed youth, and highly strung: One whose desires And inner fires Moved him as wires. And you may have met one stiff and old, If not in years; of manner cold; Who seemed as stone, And never had known Of mirth or moan. And there may have crossed your path a lover, In whose clear depths you could discover A staunch, robust, And tender trust, Through storm and gust. And you may have also known one fickle, Whose fancies changed as the silver sickle Of yonder moon, Which shapes so soon To demilune! You entertained a person once Whom you internally deemed a dunce: – As he sat in view Just facing you You saw him through. You came to know a learned seer Of whom you read the surface mere: Your soul quite sank; Brain of such rank Dubbed yours a blank. Anon you quizzed a man of sadness, Who never could have known true gladness: Just for a whim You pitied him In his sore trim. You journeyed with a man so glad You never could conceive him sad: He proved to be Indubitably Good company. You lit on an unadventurous slow man, Who, said you, need be feared by no man; That his slack deeds And sloth must needs Produce but weeds. A man of enterprise, shrewd and swift, Who never suffered affairs to drift, You eyed for a time Just in his prime, And judged he might climb. You smoked beside one who forgot All that you said, or grasped it not. Quite a poor thing, Not worth a sting By satirizing! Next year you nearly lost for ever Goodwill from one who forgot slights never; And, with unease, Felt you must seize Occasion to please. . . . Now. . . . All these specimens of man, So various in their pith and plan, Curious to say Were one man. Yea, I was all they.
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