 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
HE INADVERTENTLY CURES HIS LOVE-PAINS
(SONG)
I said: “O let me sing the praise
Of her who sweetly racks my days,—
Her I adore;
Her lips, her eyes, her moods, her ways!”
Of her who sweetly racks my days,—
Her I adore;
Her lips, her eyes, her moods, her ways!”
In miseries of pulse and pang
I strung my harp, and straightway sang
As none before:—
To wondrous words my quavers rang!
I strung my harp, and straightway sang
As none before:—
To wondrous words my quavers rang!
Thus I let heartaches lilt my verse,
Which suaged and soothed, and made disperse
The smarts I bore
To stagnance like a sepulchre's.
Which suaged and soothed, and made disperse
The smarts I bore
To stagnance like a sepulchre's.
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But, eased, the days that thrilled ere then
Lost value; and I ask, O when,
And how, restore
Those old sweet agonies again!
Lost value; and I ask, O when,
And how, restore
Those old sweet agonies again!
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |