EY 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!
1 min read
СлушатьShe At His Funeral
0
0
96
Give Award
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy OM (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928) was an English novelist and poet. A Victorian realist in the tradition of George Eliot, he was i…
Other author posts
Seen By The Waits
Thrugh snwy ws an shay W wnt t play a T th lnly manr-lay By th light f th Christmas mn W vil till, upwar glaning T whr a mirrr lan, W saw hr airily aning, Dming hr mvmnts srn;…
Channel Firing
That night yur grat guns, unawars, Shk all ur ffins as w lay, An brk th hanl winw-squars, W thught it was th Jugmnt-ay An sat upright…
The Man He Killed
Ha h an I but mt By sm l anint inn, W shul hav st us wn t wt Right many a nipprkin But rang as infantry, An staring fa t fa, I sht at him as h at m, An kill him in his pla…
A Confession To A Friend In Trouble
UR trubls shrink nt, thugh I fl thm lss Hr, far away, than whn I tarri nar; I vn smil l smils—with listlssnss— Yt smils thy ar, nt ghastly mkris mr A thught t strang t hus within my brain Haunting its ...…
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments