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 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
10
SHE AT HIS FUNERAL
They bear him to his resting-place—In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!
187*.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |