Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | ||
IN DEATH DIVIDED
I
I shall rot here, with those whom in their dayYou never knew,
And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay,
Met not my view,
Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you.
II
No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower,While earth endures,
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Steal on to yours;
One robin never haunt our two green covertures.
III
Some organ may resound on Sunday noonsBy where you lie,
Some other thrill the panes with other tunes
Where moulder I;
No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby.
IV
The simply-cut memorial at my headPerhaps may take
A rustic form, and that above your bed
A stately make;
No linking symbol show thereon for our tale's sake.
V
And in the monotonous moils of strained, hard-runHumanity,
The eternal tie which binds us twain in one
No eye will see
Stretching across the miles that sever you from me.
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Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | ||