Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
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‘Cogitavi vias meas’ A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire Made me gaze where it seemed to be: ’Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me On how I had walked when my sun was higher – My heart in its arrogancy. ‘You held not to whatsoever was true,’ Said my own voice talking to me: ‘Whatsoever was just you were slack to see; Kept not things lovely and pure in view,’ Said my own voice talking to me. ‘You slighted her that endureth all,’ Said my own voice talking to me; ‘Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully; That suffereth long and is kind withal,’ Said my own voice talking to me. ‘You taught not that which you set about,’ Said my own voice talking to me; ‘That the greatest of things is Charity...’ – And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out, And my voice ceased talking to me.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
923
