Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy
  The railway bore him through
    An earthen cutting out from a city:
  There was no scope for view,
Though the frail light shed by a slim young moon
  Fell like a friendly tune.
  Fell like a liquid ditty,
And the blank lack of any charm
  Of landscape did no harm.
The bald steep cutting, rigid, rough,
  And moon-lit, was enough
For poetry of place: its weathered face
Formed a convenient sheet whereon
The visions of his mind were drawn