Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Seasons of Her Year

I

Winter is white on turf and tree,
And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!

II

O ’tis a fine May morn, they say,
And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My song-birds moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
Alone – alone!

1. Genitrix Laesa
2. V.R. 1819–1901
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4. Over the Coffin
5. Song to an Old Burden

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