 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
AT THE MILL
O Miller Knox, whom we knew well,
And the mill, and the floury floors,
And the corn,—and those two women,
And infants—yours!
And the mill, and the floury floors,
And the corn,—and those two women,
And infants—yours!
The sun was shining when you rode
To market on that day:
The sun was set when home-along
You ambled in the gray,
And gathered what had taken place
While you were away.
To market on that day:
The sun was set when home-along
You ambled in the gray,
And gathered what had taken place
While you were away.
O Miller Knox, 'twas grief to see
Your good wife hanging there
By her own rash and passionate hand,
In a throe of despair;
Your good wife hanging there
By her own rash and passionate hand,
In a throe of despair;
And those two children, one by her,
And one by the waiting-maid,
Borne the same hour, and you afar,
And she past aid.
And one by the waiting-maid,
Borne the same hour, and you afar,
And she past aid.
And though sometimes you walk of nights,
Sleepless, to Yalbury Brow,
And glance the graveyard way, and grunt,
“'Twas not much, anyhow:
She shouldn't ha' minded!” nought it helps
To say that now.
Sleepless, to Yalbury Brow,
And glance the graveyard way, and grunt,
“'Twas not much, anyhow:
She shouldn't ha' minded!” nought it helps
To say that now.
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And the water dribbles down your wheel,
Your mead blooms green and gold,
And birds 'twit in your apple-boughs
Just as of old.
Your mead blooms green and gold,
And birds 'twit in your apple-boughs
Just as of old.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |