Poem by Thomas Hardy

According to the Mighty Working

I

When moiling seems at cease
In the vague void of night-time,
And heaven’s wide roomage stormless
Between the dusk and light-time,
And fear at last is formless,
We call the allurement Peace.

II

Peace, this hid riot, Change,
This revel of quick-cued mumming,
This never truly being,
This evermore becoming,
This spinner’s wheel onfleeing
Outside perception’s range.

1. The End of the Episode
2. The Month’s Calendar
3. The Strange House
4. On a Discovered Curl of Hair
5. There Seemed a Strangeness

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