Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Puzzled Game-Birds

  (Triolet)

They are not those who used to feed us
When we were young – they cannot be –
These shapes that now bereave and bleed us?
They are not those who used to feed us,
For did we then cry, they would heed us.
– If hearts can house such treachery
They are not those who used to feed us
When we were young – they cannot be!

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

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