 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE MOON LOOKS IN
I
I have risen again,And awhile survey
By my chilly ray
Through your window pane
Your upturned face,
As you think, “Ah—she
Now dreams of me
In her distant place!”
II
I pierce her blindIn her far-off home:
She fixes a comb,
And says in her mind,
“I start in an hour;
Whom shall I meet?
Won't the men be sweet,
And the women sour!”
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |