Poem by Thomas Hardy

To a Lady Playing and Singing in the Morning

Joyful lady, sing!
And I will lurk here listening,
Though nought be done, and nought begun,
And work-hours swift are scurrying.

Sing, O lady, still!
Aye, I will wait each note you trill,
Though duties due that press to do
This whole day long I unfulfil.

‘ – It is an evening tune;
One not designed to waste the noon,’
You say. I know: time bids me go –
For daytide passes too, too soon!

But let indulgence be,
This once, to my rash ecstasy:
When sounds nowhere that carolled air
My idled morn may comfort me!

1. An Expostulation
2. The Aërolite
3. The Harvest-Supper
4. Why She Moved House
5. Her Love-Birds

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