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Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди)) The Moon Looks In I I have risen again, And awhile survey By my chilly ray Through your window-pane Your upturned face, As you think, ‘Ah – she Now dreams of me In her distant place!’ II I pierce her blind In her far-off home: She fixes a comb, And says in her mind, ‘I start in an hour; Whom shall I meet? Won’t the men be sweet, And the women sour!’ Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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