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Poem by Thomas Hardy The Weary Walker A plain in front of me, And there’s the road Upon it. Wide country, And, too, the road! Past the first ridge another, And still the road Creeps on. Perhaps no other Ridge for the road? Ah! Past that ridge a third, Which still the road Has to climb furtherward – The thin white road! Sky seems to end its track; But no. The road Trails down the hill at the back. Ever the road! Thomas Hardy Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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