Today is the birthday for two poets I admire, A.E. Housman, and Robert Frost; and the centennial for another kind of poet, Tennessee Williams.
Not in the mood for any of them though, just now, great as they were. Having awoken, and found the dawn... gray....
Being therefore...desolate...and all that follows—
Thomas Hardy, instead.
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Were you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever consigned to existlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward
And the woman calling.