Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Sexton at Longpuddle

He passes down the churchyard track
On his way to toll the bell;
And stops, and looks at the graves around,
And notes each finished and greening mound
Complacently,
As their shaper he,
And one who can do it well,
And, with a prosperous sense of his doing,
Thinks he’ll not lack
Plenty such work in the long ensuing
Futurity.
For people will always die,
And he will always be nigh
To shape their cell.

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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