 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE LOVE-LETTERS
(IN MEMORIAM H. R.)
I met him quite by accident
In a bye-path that he'd frequent.
And, as he neared, the sunset glow
Warmed up the smile of pleasantry
Upon his too thin face, while he
Held a square packet up to me,
Of what, I did not know.
In a bye-path that he'd frequent.
And, as he neared, the sunset glow
Warmed up the smile of pleasantry
Upon his too thin face, while he
Held a square packet up to me,
Of what, I did not know.
“Well,” said he then; “they are my old letters.
Perhaps she—rather felt them fetters. . . .
You see, I am in a slow decline,
And she's broken off with me. Quite right
To send them back, and true foresight;
I'd got too fond of her! To-night
I burn them—stuff of mine!”
Perhaps she—rather felt them fetters. . . .
You see, I am in a slow decline,
And she's broken off with me. Quite right
To send them back, and true foresight;
I'd got too fond of her! To-night
I burn them—stuff of mine!”
He laughed in the sun—an ache in his laughter—
And went. I heard of his death soon after.
And went. I heard of his death soon after.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |