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Poem by Thomas Hardy During Wind and Rain They sing their dearest songs – He, she, all of them – yea, Treble and tenor and bass, And one to play; With the candles mooning each face... Ah, no; the years O! How the sick leaves reel down in throngs! They clear the creeping moss – Elders and juniors – aye, Making the pathways neat And the garden gay; And they build a shady seat... Ah, no; the years, the years; See, the white storm-birds wing across! They are blithely breakfasting all – Men and maidens – yea, Under the summer tree, With a glimpse of the bay, While pet fowl come to the knee... Ah, no; the years O! And the rotten rose is ript from the wall. They change to a high new house, He, she, all of them – aye, Clocks and carpets and chairs On the lawn all day, And brightest things that are theirs... Ah, no; the years, the years; Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs. Thomas Hardy Thomas Hardy's other poems:
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