Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
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(Song: Minor) I look in her face and say, ‘Sing as you used to sing About Love’s blossoming;’ But she hints not Yea or Nay. ‘Sing, then, that Love’s a pain, If, Dear, you think it so, Whether it be or no;’ But dumb her lips remain. I go to a far-off room, A faint song ghosts my ear; Which song I cannot hear, But it seems to come from a tomb.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
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