 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE MONTH'S CALENDAR
Tear off the calendar
Of this month past,
And all its weeks, that are
Flown, to be cast
To oblivion fast!
Of this month past,
And all its weeks, that are
Flown, to be cast
To oblivion fast!
Darken that day
On which we met,
With its words of gay
Half-felt regret
That you'll forget!
On which we met,
With its words of gay
Half-felt regret
That you'll forget!
The second day, too;
The noon I nursed
Well—thoughts; yes, through
To the thirty-first;
That was the worst.
The noon I nursed
Well—thoughts; yes, through
To the thirty-first;
That was the worst.
For then it was
You let me see
There was good cause
Why you could not be
Aught ever to me!
You let me see
There was good cause
Why you could not be
Aught ever to me!
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |