Her Song

Poem By Thomas Hardy

I sang that song on Sunday,
To witch an idle while,
I sang that song on Monday,
As fittest to beguile;
I sang it as the year outwore,
And the new slid in;
I thought not what might shape before
Another would begin.

I sang that song in summer,
All unforeknowingly,
To him as a new-comer
From regions strange to me:
I sang it when in afteryears
The shades stretched out,
And paths were faint; and flocking fears
Brought cup-eyed care and doubt.

Sings he that song on Sundays
In some dim land afar,
On Saturdays, or Mondays,
As when the evening star
Glimpsed in upon his bending face
And my hanging hair,
And time untouched me with a trace
Of soul-smart or despair?

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I said to Love,
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   All else above;

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And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
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   Two thrown together
Who are not wont to wear
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"How Great My Grief" (Triolet)

How great my grief, my joys how few,
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How great my grief, my joys how few,

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I need not go
Through sleet and snow
To where I know
She waits for me;

A Meeting With Despair

AS evening shaped I found me on a moor
Which sight could scarce sustain:
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Was like a tract in pain.