 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE SELFSAME SONG
A bird sings the selfsame song,
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
Long years ago.
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
Long years ago.
A pleasing marvel is how
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
Unchanged in a note!
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
Unchanged in a note!
—But it's not the selfsame bird.—
No: perished to dust is he. . . .
As also are those who heard
That song with me.
No: perished to dust is he. . . .
As also are those who heard
That song with me.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |