 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
TO A LADY PLAYING AND SINGING IN THE MORNING
Joyful lady, sing!
And I will lurk here listening,
Though nought be done, and nought begun,
And work-hours swift are scurrying.
And I will lurk here listening,
Though nought be done, and nought begun,
And work-hours swift are scurrying.
Sing, O lady, still!
Aye, I will wait each note you trill,
Though duties due that press to do
This whole day long I unfulfil.
Aye, I will wait each note you trill,
Though duties due that press to do
This whole day long I unfulfil.
“—It is an evening tune;
One not designed to waste the noon,”
You say. I know: time bids me go—
For daytide passes too, too soon!
One not designed to waste the noon,”
You say. I know: time bids me go—
For daytide passes too, too soon!
But let indulgence be,
This once, to my rash ecstasy:
When sounds nowhere that carolled air
My idled morn may comfort me!
This once, to my rash ecstasy:
When sounds nowhere that carolled air
My idled morn may comfort me!
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |