Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
The Musical Box
Lifelong to be Seemed the fair colour of the time; That there was standing shadowed near A spirit who sang to the gentle chime Of the self-struck notes, I did not hear, I did not see. Thus did it sing To the mindless lyre that played indoors As she came to listen for me without: ‘O value what the nonce outpours – This best of life – that shines about Your welcoming!’ I had slowed along After the torrid hours were done, Though still the posts and walls and road Flung back their sense of the hot-faced sun, And had walked by Stourside Mill, where broad Stream-lilies throng. And I descried The dusky house that stood apart, And her, white-muslined, waiting there In the porch with high-expectant heart, While still the thin mechanic air Went on inside. At whiles would flit Swart bats, whose wings, be-webbed and tanned, Whirred like the wheels of ancient clocks: She laughed a hailing as she scanned Me in the gloom, the tuneful box Intoning it. Lifelong to be I thought it. That there watched hard by A spirit who sang to the indoor tune, ‘O make the most of what is nigh!’ I did not hear in my dull soul-swoon – I did not see.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
953
