Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses by Thomas Hardy
page 117 of 158 (74%)
page 117 of 158 (74%)
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Toils a thrush,--constrained to very
Dregs of food by sharp distress, Taking such with thankfulness. Why, O starving bird, when I One day's joy would justify, And put misery out of view, Do you make me notice you! THE RAMBLER I do not see the hills around, Nor mark the tints the copses wear; I do not note the grassy ground And constellated daisies there. I hear not the contralto note Of cuckoos hid on either hand, The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat When eve's brown awning hoods the land. Some say each songster, tree, and mead - All eloquent of love divine - Receives their constant careful heed: Such keen appraisement is not mine. |
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