Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Lodging-House Fuchsias

Mrs Masters’s fuchsias hung
Higher and broader, and brightly swung,
Bell-like, more and more
Over the narrow garden-path,
Giving the passer a sprinkle-bath
In the morning.

She put up with their pushful ways,
And made us tenderly lift their sprays,
Going to her door:
But when her funeral had to pass
They cut back all the flowery mass
In the morning.

1. The End of the Episode
2. The Month’s Calendar
3. The Strange House
4. On a Discovered Curl of Hair
5. The Pair He Saw Pass

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