(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

She, At His Funeral

They bear him to his resting-place—
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger’s space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!

by Thomas Hardy

Comments (1)

I love this poem.....it deserves much comment!