 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
AN EXPERIENCE
Wit, weight, or wealth there was not
In anything that was said,
In anything that was done;
All was of scope to cause not
A triumph, dazzle, or dread
To even the subtlest one,
My friend,
To even the subtlest one.
In anything that was said,
In anything that was done;
All was of scope to cause not
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To even the subtlest one,
My friend,
To even the subtlest one.
But there was a new afflation—
An aura zephyring round
That care infected not:
It came as a salutation,
And, in my sweet astound,
I scarcely witted what
Might pend,
I scarcely witted what.
An aura zephyring round
That care infected not:
It came as a salutation,
And, in my sweet astound,
I scarcely witted what
Might pend,
I scarcely witted what.
The hills in samewise to me
Spoke, as they grayly gazed,
—First hills to speak so yet!
The thin-edged breezes blew me
What I, though cobwebbed, crazed
Was never to forget,
My friend,
Was never to forget!
Spoke, as they grayly gazed,
—First hills to speak so yet!
The thin-edged breezes blew me
What I, though cobwebbed, crazed
Was never to forget,
My friend,
Was never to forget!
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |