 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE WEARY WALKER
A plain in front of me,
And there's the road
Upon it. Wide country,
And, too, the road!
And there's the road
Upon it. Wide country,
And, too, the road!
Past the first ridge another,
And still the road
Creeps on. Perhaps no other
Ridge for the road?
And still the road
Creeps on. Perhaps no other
Ridge for the road?
704
Ah! Past that ridge a third,
Which still the road
Has to climb furtherward—
The thin white road!
Which still the road
Has to climb furtherward—
The thin white road!
Sky seems to end its track;
But no. The road
Trails down the hill at the back.
Ever the road!
But no. The road
Trails down the hill at the back.
Ever the road!
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |