Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Puzzled Game-Birds

  (Triolet)

They are not those who used to feed us
When we were young – they cannot be –
These shapes that now bereave and bleed us?
They are not those who used to feed us,
For did we then cry, they would heed us.
– If hearts can house such treachery
They are not those who used to feed us
When we were young – they cannot be!

1. The End of the Episode
2. Barthelemon at Vauxhall
3. Revulsion
4. The Orphaned Old Maid
5. Ten Years Since

Print

1718 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version