Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
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
Thomas Hardy
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
Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy
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Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
I idly cut a parsley stalk,
And blew therein towards the moon;
I had not thought what ghosts would walk
With shivering footsteps to my tune.
I went, and knelt, and scooped my hand
As if to drink, into the brook,
And a faint figure seemed to stand
Above me, with the bygone look.
I lipped rough rhymes of chance, not choice,
I thought not what my words might be;
There came into my ear a voice
That turned a tenderer verse for me.