Who knew that my favourite poet would have been 171 today, had he not died in 1928. Still, now that I know I felt compelled to share with you my favourite poem from Thomas Hardy. He also wrote my favourite novel. Gold star for the first of my friends to comment on which novel that is.
Here is his poem The Voice (just try not to sigh while you read it. Love.it.)
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.