|
|
The Moon Looks In
By Thomas Hardy
I
I have risen again,
And awhile survey
By my chilly ray
Through your window-pane
Your upturned face,
As you think, "Ah-she
Now dreams of me
In her distant place!"
II
I pierce her blind
In her far-off home:
She fixes a comb,
And says in her mind,
"I start in an hour;
Whom shall I meet?
Won't the men be sweet,
And the women sour!"
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 395 times.
|
|
