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Poem by Thomas Hardy


To a Lady


Offended by a Book of the Writer's

NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe,
Never to press thy cosy cushions more,
Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore,
Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:

Knowing thy natural receptivity,
I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve,
My sombre image, warped by insidious heave
Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee.

So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams
Of me and mine diminish day by day,
And yield their space to shine of smugger things;
Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams,
And then in far and feeble visitings,
And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway. 



Thomas Hardy


Thomas Hardy's other poems:
  1. Lady Vi
  2. The Dead Bastard
  3. Rome: On the Palatine
  4. Silences
  5. Nothing Matters Much


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • John Gay To a Lady ("When I some antique Jar behold")
  • Matthew Prior To a Lady ("Spare, gen'rous victor, spare the slave")
  • William Dunbar To a Lady ("SWEET rois of vertew and of gentilness")

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