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Her Song
by
Thomas Hardy
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I sang that song on Sunday To which an idle while I sang that song on Monday As fittest to beguile: I sang it as the year outwore And the new slid in; I thought not what might shape before Another would begin I sang that song in summer All unforeknowingly To him as a new-comer From regions strange to me: I sang it when in afteryears The shades stretched out And paths were faint; and flocking fears Brought cup-eyed care and doubt Sings he that song on Sundays In some dim land afar On Saturdays, or Mondays As when the evening star Glimpsed in upon his bеnding face And my hanging hair And time untouched mе with a trace Of soul-smart or despair?
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