Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | ||
NEWS FOR HER MOTHER
I
One mile more isWhere your door is,
Mother mine!—
Harvest's coming,
Mills are strumming,
Apples fine,
And the cider made to-year will be as wine.
II
Yet, not viewingWhat's a-doing
Here around
Is it thrills me,
And so fills me
That I bound
Like a ball or leaf or lamb along the ground.
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III
Tremble not nowAt your lot now,
Silly soul!
Hosts have sped them
Quick to wed them,
Great and small,
Since the first two sighing half-hearts made a whole.
IV
Yet I wonder,Will it sunder
Her from me?
Will she guess that
I said “Yes,”—that
His I'd be,
Ere I thought she might not see him as I see!
V
Old brown gable,Granary, stable,
Here you are!
O my mother,
Can another
Ever bar
Mine from thy heart, make thy nearness seem afar?
Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | ||