 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
PENANCE
“Why do you sit, O pale thin man,
At the end of the room
By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?
—It is cold as a tomb,
And there's not a spark within the grate;
And the jingling wires
Are as vain desires
That have lagged too late.”
At the end of the room
By that harpsichord, built on the quaint old plan?
—It is cold as a tomb,
And there's not a spark within the grate;
And the jingling wires
Are as vain desires
That have lagged too late.”
“Why do I? Alas, far times ago
A woman lyred here
In the evenfall; one who fain did so
From year to year;
And, in loneliness bending wistfully,
Would wake each note
In sick sad rote,
None to listen or see!
A woman lyred here
In the evenfall; one who fain did so
From year to year;
And, in loneliness bending wistfully,
Would wake each note
In sick sad rote,
None to listen or see!
“I would not join. I would not stay,
But drew away,
Though the winter fire beamed brightly. . . . Aye!
I do to-day
What I would not then; and the chill old keys,
Like a skull's brown teeth
Loose in their sheath,
Freeze my touch; yes, freeze.”
But drew away,
Though the winter fire beamed brightly. . . . Aye!
I do to-day
597
Like a skull's brown teeth
Loose in their sheath,
Freeze my touch; yes, freeze.”
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |