Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
The Thing Unplanned
The white winter sun struck its stroke on the bridge, The meadow-rills rippled and gleamed As I left the thatched post-office, just by the ridge, And dropped in my pocket her long tender letter, With: ‘This must be snapped! it is more than it seemed; And now is the opportune time!’ But against what I willed worked the surging sublime Of the thing that I did – the thing better!
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