  1828-1909. Forty years back, when much had place That since has perished out of mind, I heard that voice and saw that face. He spoke as one afoot will wind A morning horn ere men awake; His note was trenchant, turning kind. He was of those whose wit can shake And riddle to the very core The counterfeits that Time will break.... Of late, when we two met once more, The luminous countenance and rare Shone just as forty years before. So that, when now all tongues declare His shape unseen by his green hill, I scarce believe he sits not there. No matter. Further and further still Through the world's vaporous vitiate air His words wing on—as live words will. Thomas Hardy. May, 1909. |
|
