Poem by Thomas Hardy

She, I, and They

I was sitting,
She was knitting,
And the portraits of our fore-folk hung around;
When there struck on us a sigh;
‘Ah – what is that?’ said I:
‘Was it not you?’ said she. ‘A sigh did sound.’

I had not breathed it,
Nor the night-wind heaved it,
And how it came to us we could not guess;
And we looked up at each face
Framed and glazed there in its place,
Still hearkening; but thenceforth was silentness.

Half in dreaming,
‘Then its meaning,’
Said we, ‘must be surely this; that they repine
That we should be the last
Of stocks once unsurpassed,
And unable to keep up their sturdy line.’

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

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