O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough -
Light in their loving as soldiers can be -
First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .
- Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire,
They stepping steadily--only too readily! -
Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher.
Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there,
Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night;
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.
Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court perils that honour could miss.
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved.Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
Treading back slowly the track of their march.
Someone said:"Nevermore will they come:evermore
Are they now lost to us."O it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways,
Bear them through safely, in brief time or long.
- Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint in the night-time when life beats are low
Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things,
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show.
par Thomas Hardy, publié le sam. 26/07/2008 à 23:57
Thy shadow, Earth, from Pole to Central Sea,
Now steals along upon the Moon's meek shine
In even monochrome and curving line
par Thomas Hardy, publié le lun. 21/07/2008 à 09:42
A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
par Thomas Hardy, publié le mer. 02/07/2008 à 23:01
O life with the sad seared face,
I weary of seeing thee,
And thy draggled cloak, and thy hobbling pace,
par Thomas Hardy, publié le jeu. 26/06/2008 à 15:14
YOUR troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
par Thomas Hardy, publié le lun. 23/06/2008 à 16:15
I MARK the months in liveries dank and dry,
The day-tides many-shaped and hued;
I see the nightfall shades subtrude,