 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE NEW TOY
She cannot leave it alone,The new toy;
She pats it, smooths it, rights it, to show it's her own,
As the other train-passengers muse on its temper and tone
Till she draws from it cries of annoy:—
She feigns to appear as if thinking it nothing so rare
Or worthy of pride, to achieve
This wonder a child, though with reason the rest of them there
May so be inclined to believe.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |