Poem by Thomas Hardy

Suspense

A clamminess hangs over all like a clout,
The fields are a water-colour washed out,
The sky at its rim leaves a chink of light,
Like the lid of a pot that will not close tight.

She is away by the groaning sea,
Strained at the heart, and waiting for me:
Between us our foe from a hid retreat
Is watching, to wither us if we meet. . . .

But it matters little, however we fare –
Whether we meet, or I get not there;
The sky will look the same thereupon,
And the wind and the sea go groaning on.

1. The Collector Cleans His Picture
2. When Dead
3. The Single Witness
4. The Young Churchwarden
5. The Old Neighbour and the New

Emily Dickinson Suspense ("Elysium is as far as to")

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