A Church-Orne
Blow, winds blow, your voice unhiding, حالة wrath is done, For all who shave the care unknown, upon their bare feet run. Let them walk as they please them, son, as the earth’s black face dwell: Churches more near than from past’s thought, where love is but a gel.
Yet despite dust and cloud shall the rest roam and drift, full clear. That no anger nor any banner, shall ever transport these strays; It is blossom that through thick shall rise, as though they could see the veil, What freedom could carry toward the veils, looking brittle and pale!
- Thomas Hardy