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Poem by Thomas Hardy
A clamminess hangs over all like a clout, The fields are a water-colour washed out, The sky at its rim leaves a chink of light, Like the lid of a pot that will not close tight. She is away by the groaning sea, Strained at the heart, and waiting for me: Between us our foe from a hid retreat Is watching, to wither us if we meet. . . . But it matters little, however we fare Ц Whether we meet, or I get not there; The sky will look the same thereupon, And the wind and the sea go groaning on.
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