Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
The Shiver
Five lone clangs from the house-clock nigh, And I woke with a sigh: Stars wore west like a slow tide flowing, And my lover had told yesternight of his going, – That at this gray hour he’d be hasting by, Starting betimes on a journey afar: – So, casement ajar, I eyed in the upland pasture his figure, A dim dumb speck, growing darker and bigger, Then smalling to nought where the nut-trees are. He could not bend his track to my window, he’d said, Being hurried ahead: But I wished he had tried to! – and then felt a shiver, Corpse-cold, as he sank toward the town by the river; And back I went sadly and slowly to bed. What meant my shiver while seeing him pass As a dot on the grass I surmised not then. But later I knew it When came again he; and my words outdrew it, As said he: ‘It’s hard for your bearing, alas! ‘But I’ve seen, I have clasped, where the smart ships plough, One of far brighter brow. A sea-goddess. Shiver not. One far rarer In gifts than I find thee; yea, warmer and fairer: – I seek her again; and I love you not now.’
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