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
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
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Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
We are always saying
  “Good-bye, good-bye!”
In work, in playing,
In gloom, in gaying:
  At many a stage
  Of pilgrimage
  From youth to age
  We say, “Good-bye,
    Good-bye!”
We are undiscerning
  Which go to sigh,
Which will be yearning
For soon returning;
  And which no more
  Will dark our door,
  Or tread our shore,
  But go to die,
    To die.
Some come from roaming
  With joy again;
Some, who come homing
By stealth at gloaming,
  Had better have stopped
  Till death, and dropped
  By strange hands propped,
  Than come so fain,
    So fain.
So, with this saying,
  “Good-bye, good-bye,”
We speed their waying
Without betraying
  Our grief, our fear
  No more to hear
  From them, close, clear,
  Again: “Good-bye,
    Good-bye!”