Poem by Thomas Hardy

End of the Year 1912

You were here at his young beginning,
You are not here at his agèd end;
Off he coaxed you from Life’s mad spinning,
Lest you should see his form extend
Shivering, sighing,
Slowly dying,
And a tear on him expend.

So it comes that we stand lonely
In the star-lit avenue,
Dropping broken lipwords only,
For we hear no songs from you,
Such as flew here
For the new year
Once, while six bells swung thereto.

1. The Aërolite
2. Genitrix Laesa
3. The Felled Elm and She
4. V.R. 1819–1901
5. Song from Heine

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