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
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
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
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
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
Thomas Hardy
We shall see her no more
  On the balcony,
Smiling, while hurt, at the roar
  As of surging sea
From the stormy sturdy band
  Who have doomed her lord's cause,
Though she waves her little hand
  As it were applause.
Here will be candidates yet,
  And candidates' wives,
Fervid with zeal to set
  Their ideals on our lives:
Here will come market-men
  On the market-days,
Here will clash now and then
  More such party assays.
And the balcony will fill
  When such times are renewed,
And the throng in the street will thrill
  With to-day's mettled mood;
But she will no more stand
  In the sunshine there,
With that wave of her white-gloved hand,
  And that chestnut hair.