I LEANT upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winters dregs made desolate
weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind
that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The lands sharp features seemd to be
The Centurys corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
every spirit upon earth
Seemd fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
So little cause for carollings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessàed Hope, whereof
And I was unaware.
PERHAPS, long hence, when I have passd away,
Some others feature, accent, thought like
Will carry you back to what I used to say,
And bring some memory of your loves decline.
may pause awhile and think, Poor jade!
And yield a sigh to meas ample due,
Not as the tittle of a debt
To one who could resign her all to you
And thus reflecting, you will never see
That your thin thought, in two small words conveyd,
no such fleeting phantom-thought to me,
But the Whole Life wherein my part was playd;
And you amid its
A Thoughtas I in yours but seem to be.
I NEED not go
Through sleet and snow
To where I know
She waits for me;
She will tarry me
Till I find it fair,
And have time to spare
When Ive overgot
The world somewhat,
When things cost not
Such stress and strain,
By cypress sough
To tell my Love
I am come again.
And if some day,
When none cries nay,
I still delay
To seek her side,
(Though ample measure
Await my pleasure)
She will not chide.
Whatnot upbraid me
That I delayd me,
Nor ask what stayd me
So long? Ah, no!
cares may claim me.
New loves inflame me,
She will not blame me,
But suffer it so.
WILLIAM DEWY, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow
late at plough,
Roberts kin, and Johns, and Neds,
the Squire, and Lady Susan, lie in Mellstock church-
Gone, I call them, gone for good, that
group of local
hearts and heads;
Yet at mothy curfew-tide,
And at midnight when the noon-heat breathes
from walls and leads,
Theyve a way of whispering to mefellow-wight who
muted, measured note
Of a ripple under archways, or a lone caves stillicide:
We have triumphd: this achievement turns the bane to
Unsuccesses to success,
worn eves and morrows to a morrow free
No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old
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