Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Prospect

The twigs of the birch imprint the December sky
Like branching veins upon a thin old hand;
I think of summer-time, yes, of last July,
When she was beneath them, greeting a gathered band
Of the urban and bland.

Iced airs wheeze through the skeletoned hedge from the north,
With steady snores, and a numbing that threatens snow,
And skaters pass; and merry boys go forth
To look for slides. But well, well do I know
Whither I would go!

1. Last Look round St Martin’s Fair
2. The Aërolite
3. An Expostulation
4. Discouragement
5. That Kiss in the Dark

Elizabeth Barrett-Browning The Prospect ("METHINKS we do as fretful children do")

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