Poem by Thomas Hardy

* * *

  (Song: Minor)

I look in her face and say,
‘Sing as you used to sing
About Love’s blossoming;’
But she hints not Yea or Nay.

‘Sing, then, that Love’s a pain,
If, Dear, you think it so,
Whether it be or no;’
But dumb her lips remain.

I go to a far-off room,
A faint song ghosts my ear;
Which song I cannot hear,
But it seems to come from a tomb.

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