deguonis
04-07-2014, 05:40 PM
TO THOMAS HARDY ON HIS EIGHTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY
By ALFRED NOYES
A breath of hope, for those who have known despair;
Of victory, for those who have drunk defeat;
Of harvest, when the wounded fields lie bare,
Or but a mist of green foreruns the wheat;
A breath of love, when all we loved lies dead;
Of beauty, too remote for tongue to tell;
Of joy, when sorrow veiled and bowed the head;
Of Heaven, for those that daily walked in Hell; —
His music breathes it, for his wrestling soul
Through agonies of denial postulates
All that young eyes affirm. He proves his goal
Divine, because he mourns the fast barred gates;
And by his grief for love and hope brought low
Proves that the Highest ne’er would have it so.
By ALFRED NOYES
A breath of hope, for those who have known despair;
Of victory, for those who have drunk defeat;
Of harvest, when the wounded fields lie bare,
Or but a mist of green foreruns the wheat;
A breath of love, when all we loved lies dead;
Of beauty, too remote for tongue to tell;
Of joy, when sorrow veiled and bowed the head;
Of Heaven, for those that daily walked in Hell; —
His music breathes it, for his wrestling soul
Through agonies of denial postulates
All that young eyes affirm. He proves his goal
Divine, because he mourns the fast barred gates;
And by his grief for love and hope brought low
Proves that the Highest ne’er would have it so.