Thomas Hardy
No Buyers
A Load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs Labours along the street in the rain: With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs. The man foots in front of
Fragment
At last I entered a long dark gallery, Catacomb-lined; and ranged at the side Were the bodies of men from far and wide Who, motion past, were nevertheless not dead. “The sense of waiting
Her Late Husband (King's-Hintock, 182-.)
“No not where I shall make my own; But dig his grave just by The woman’s with the initialed stone – As near as he can lie – After whose death he seemed to
The Contretemps
A forward rush by the lamp in the gloom, And we clasped, and almost kissed; But she was not the woman whom I had promised to meet in the thawing brume On that harbour-bridge;
The Lost Pyx: A Mediaeval Legend
Some say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand Attests to a deed of hell; But of else than of bale is the mystic tale That ancient Vale-folk tell. Ere Cernel’s Abbey ceased
Lausanne, In Gibbon's Old Garden: 11-12 p. m
(The 110th anniversary of the completion of the “Decline and Fall” at the same hour and place) A spirit seems to pass, Formal in pose, but grave and grand withal: He contemplates a volume
Waiting Both
A star looks down at me, And says: “Here I and you Stand each in our degree: What do you mean to do,- Mean to do?” I say: “For all I know, Wait, and
Domicilium
It faces west, and round the back and sides High beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs, And sweep against the roof. Wild honeysucks Climb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish
The Selfsame Song
A bird sings the selfsame song, With never a fault in its flow, That we listened to here those long Long years ago. A pleasing marvel is how A strain of such rapturous rote
The Seasons of Her Year
I Winter is white on turf and tree, And birds are fled; But summer songsters pipe to me, And petals spread, For what I dreamt of secretly His lips have said! II O ’tis
After Schiller
Knight, a true sister-love This heart retains; Ask me no other love, That way lie pains! Calm must I view thee come, Calm see thee go; Tale-telling tears of thine I must not know
To Flowers From Italy in Winter
Sunned in the South, and here to-day; If all organic things Be sentient, Flowers, as some men say, What are your ponderings? How can you stay, nor vanish quite From this bleak spot of
At The Railway Station, Upways
‘There is not much that I can do, For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!’ Spoke up the pitying child A little boy with a violin At the station before the train came
Postponement
SNOW-BOUND in woodland, a mournful word, Dropt now and then from the bill of a bird, Reached me on wind-wafts; and thus I heard, Wearily waiting: “I planned her a nest in a leafless
Her Immortality
UPON a noon I pilgrimed through A pasture, mile by mile, Unto the place where I last saw My dead Love’s living smile. And sorrowing I lay me down Upon the heated sod: It