Poem by Thomas Hardy

Ice on the Highway

Seven buxom women abreast, and arm in arm,
Trudge down the hill, tip-toed,
And breathing warm;
They must perforce trudge thus, to keep upright
On the glassy ice-bound road,

And they must get to market whether or no,
Provisions running low
With the nearing Saturday night,
While the lumbering van wherein they mostly ride
Can nowise go:
Yet loud their laughter as they stagger and slide!

1. Genitrix Laesa
2. Song from Heine
3. Nothing Matters Much
4. Timing Her
5. On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth

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