Poem by Thomas Hardy

Epitaph for George Moore

On one who thought no other could write such English as himself

‘No mortal man beneath the sky
Can write such English as can I
They say it holds no thought my own
What then, such beauty (perfection) is not known.’

Heap dustbins on him:
They’ll not meet
The apex of his self conceit.

1. An Expostulation
2. Her Love-Birds
3. The Collector Cleans His Picture
4. The Aërolite
5. The Harvest-Supper

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