 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE RIDDLE
I
Stretching eyes westOver the sea,
Wind foul or fair,
Always stood she
Prospect-impressed;
Solely out there
Did her gaze rest,
Never elsewhere
Seemed charm to be.
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II
Always eyes eastPonders she now—
As in devotion—
Hills of blank brow
Where no waves plough.
Never the least
Room for emotion
Drawn from the ocean
Does she allow.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |