 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE LETTER'S TRIUMPH
(A FANCY)
Yes: I perceive it's to your Love
You are bent on sending me. That this is so
Your words and phrases prove!
You are bent on sending me. That this is so
Your words and phrases prove!
And now I am folded, and start to go,
Where you, my writer, have no leave to come:
My entry none will know!
Where you, my writer, have no leave to come:
My entry none will know!
And I shall catch her eye, and dumb
She'll keep, should my unnoised arrival be
Hoped for, or troublesome.
She'll keep, should my unnoised arrival be
Hoped for, or troublesome.
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My face she'll notice readily:
And, whether she care to meet you, or care not,
She will perforce meet me;
And, whether she care to meet you, or care not,
She will perforce meet me;
Take me to closet or garden-plot
And, blushing or pouting, bend her eyes quite near,
Moved much, or never a jot.
And, blushing or pouting, bend her eyes quite near,
Moved much, or never a jot.
And while you wait in hope and fear,
Far from her cheeks and lips, snug I shall stay
In close communion there,
Far from her cheeks and lips, snug I shall stay
In close communion there,
And hear her heart-beats, things she may say,
As near her naked fingers, sleeve, or glove
I lie—ha-ha!—all day.
As near her naked fingers, sleeve, or glove
I lie—ha-ha!—all day.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |