 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
IN WEATHERBURY STOCKS
(1850)
“I sit here in these stocks,
And Saint-Mary's moans eleven;
The sky is dark and cold:
I would I were in heaven!
And Saint-Mary's moans eleven;
The sky is dark and cold:
I would I were in heaven!
860
“What footsteps do I hear?
Ah, you do not forget,
My Sophy! O, my dear,
We may be happy yet!
Ah, you do not forget,
My Sophy! O, my dear,
We may be happy yet!
“But—. Mother, is't your voice?
You who have come to me?—
It did not cross my thought:
I was thinking it was she.”
You who have come to me?—
It did not cross my thought:
I was thinking it was she.”
“She! Foolish simple son!
She says: ‘I've finished quite
With him or any one
Put in the stocks to-night.’
She says: ‘I've finished quite
With him or any one
Put in the stocks to-night.’
“She's gone to Blooms-End dance,
And will not come back yet:
Her new man sees his chance,
And is teaching her to forget.
And will not come back yet:
Her new man sees his chance,
And is teaching her to forget.
“Jim, think no other woman
To such a fellow is true
But the mother you have grieved so,
Or cares for one like you!”
To such a fellow is true
But the mother you have grieved so,
Or cares for one like you!”
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |