Poem by Thomas Hardy

A Practical Woman

‘O who’ll get me a healthy child: –
I should prefer a son –
Seven have I had in thirteen years,
Sickly every one!

‘Three mope about as feeble shapes;
Weak; white; they’ll be no good.
One came deformed; an idiot next;
And two are crass as wood.

‘I purpose one not only sound
In flesh, but bright in mind:
And duly for producing him
A means I’ve now to find.’

She went away. She disappeared,
Years, years. Then back she came:
In her hand was a blooming boy
Mentally and in frame.

‘I found a father at last who’d suit
The purpose in my head,
And used him till he’d done his job,’
Was all thereon she said.

1. On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth
2. The Month’s Calendar
3. The Dead Bastard
4. In Death Divided
5. Paths of Former Time

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