The Dead Man Walking
Автор книги Thomas Hardy
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They hail me as one living,
But don't they know.
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?
I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening.
Ashes gone cold.
Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments.
In hall and bower.
There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me.
On to this death ...
-- A Troubadour-youth I rambled.
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging.
In me like fire.
