Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Moon Looks In

I

I have risen again,
And awhile survey
By my chilly ray
Through your window-pane
Your upturned face,
As you think, ‘Ah – she
Now dreams of me
In her distant place!’

II

I pierce her blind
In her far-off home:
She fixes a comb,
And says in her mind,
‘I start in an hour;
Whom shall I meet?
Won’t the men be sweet,
And the women sour!’

1. At the Word ‘Farewell’
2. The Supplanter
3. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
4. The Children and Sir Nameless
5. Tragedian to Tragedienne

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