 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
SUSPENSE
A clamminess hangs over all like a clout,
The fields are a water-colour washed out,
The sky at its rim leaves a chink of light,
Like the lid of a pot that will not close tight.
The fields are a water-colour washed out,
The sky at its rim leaves a chink of light,
Like the lid of a pot that will not close tight.
She is away by the groaning sea,
Strained at the heart, and waiting for me:
Between us our foe from a hid retreat
Is watching, to wither us if we meet. . . .
Strained at the heart, and waiting for me:
Between us our foe from a hid retreat
Is watching, to wither us if we meet. . . .
But it matters little, however we fare—
Whether we meet, or I get not there;
The sky will look the same thereupon,
And the wind and the sea go groaning on.
Whether we meet, or I get not there;
The sky will look the same thereupon,
And the wind and the sea go groaning on.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |