Poem by Thomas Hardy

Seventy-Four and Twenty

Here goes a man of seventy-four,
Who sees not what life means for him,
And here another in years a score
Who reads its very figure and trim.

The one who shall walk to-day with me
Is not the youth who gazes far,
But the breezy sire who cannot see
What Earth’s ingrained conditions are.

1. The Paphian Ball
2. After the Death of a Friend
3. The Superseded
4. To Carrey Clavel
5. The Hatband

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