Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
The Faithful Swallow
When summer shone Its sweetest on An August day, ‘Here evermore,’ I said, ‘I’ll stay; Not go away To another shore As fickle they!’ December came: ’Twas not the same! I did not know Fidelity Would serve me so. Frost, hunger, snow; And now, ah me, Too late to go!
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
913
