Her Dilemma
HE two were silent in a sunless church, Whose mildewed walls, uneven paving-stones, And wasted carvings passed antique research; And nothing broke the clock's dull monotones. Leaning against a wormy poppy-head, So wan and worn that he could scarcely stand, —For he was soon to die,—he softly said, "Tell me you love me!"—holding hard her hand. She would have given a world to breathe "yes" truly, So much his life seemed hanging on her mind, And hence she lied, her heart persuaded throughly, 'Twas worth her soul to be a moment kind. But the sad need thereof, his nearing death, So mocked humanity that she shamed to prize A world conditioned thus, or care for breath Where Nature such dilemmas could devise.
Thomas Hardy
Other author posts
Thoughts of Phena at the News of Her Death
Not a line of her writing have I Not a thread of her hair, No mark of her late time as dame in her dwelling, whereby I may picture her there; And in vain do I urge my unsight To conceive my lost prize At her close, whom I knew when her dreams...
Neutral Tones
WE stood by a pond that winter day, And the sun was white, as though chidden of God, And a few leaves lay on the starving sod, —They had fallen from an ash, and were gray Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove Over tedious riddles solved year...
The Roman Gravemounds
By Rome's dim relics there walks a man, Eyes bent; and he carries a basket and spade; I guess what impels him to scrape and scan; Yea, his dreams of that Empire long decayed
The House Of Hospitalities
Here we broached the Christmas barrel, Pushed up the charred log-ends; Here we sang the Christmas carol, And called in friends
