Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
Two Serenades
I On Christmas Eve Late on Christmas Eve, in the street alone, Outside a house, on the pavement-stone, I sang to her, as we’d sung together On former eves ere I felt her tether. – Above the door of green by me Was she, her casement seen by me; But she would not heed What I melodied In my soul’s sore need – She would not heed. Cassiopeia overhead, And the Seven of the Wain, heard what I said As I bent me there, and voiced, and fingered Upon the strings... Long, long I lingered: Only the curtains hid from her One whom caprice had bid from her; But she did not come, And my heart grew numb And dull my strum; She did not come. II A Year Later I skimmed the strings; I sang quite low; I hoped she would not come or know That the house next door was the one now dittied, Not hers, as when I had played unpitied; – Next door, where dwelt a heart fresh stirred, My new Love, of good will to me, Unlike my old Love chill to me, Who had not cared for my notes when heard: Yet that old Love came To the other’s name As hers were the claim; Yea, the old Love came. My viol sank mute, my tongue stood still, I tried to sing on, but vain my will: I prayed she would guess of the later, and leave me; She stayed, as though, were she slain by the smart, She would bear love’s burn for a newer heart. The tense-drawn moment wrought to bereave me Of voice, and I turned in a dumb despair At her finding I’d come to another there. Sick I withdrew At love’s grim hue Ere my last Love knew; Sick I withdrew.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
911
