Poem by Thomas Hardy

She at His Funeral

THEY bear him to his resting-place--
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire! 

1. The End of the Episode
2. Barthelemon at Vauxhall
3. The Month’s Calendar
4. The Second Visit
5. Revulsion

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