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The Haunter Post by :pedantic Category :Poems Author :Thomas Hardy Date :December 2010 Read :1711

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The Haunter

He does not think that I haunt here nightly:
How shall I let him know
That whither his fancy sets him wandering
I, too, alertly go? -
Hover and hover a few feet from him
Just as I used to do,
But cannot answer his words addressed me -
Only listen thereto!

When I could answer he did not say them:
When I could let him know
How I would like to join in his journeys
Seldom he wished to go.
Now that he goes and wants me with him
More than he used to do,
Never he sees my faithful phantom
Though he speaks thereto.

Yes, I accompany him to places
Only dreamers know,
Where the shy hares limp long paces,
Where the night rooks go;
Into old aisles where the past is all to him,
Close as his shade can do,
Always lacking the power to call to him,
Near as I reach thereto!

What a good haunter I am, O tell him,
Quickly make him know
If he but sigh since my loss befell him
Straight to his side I go.
Tell him a faithful one is doing
All that love can do
Still that his path may be worth pursuing,
And to bring peace thereto.

(The end)
Thomas Hardy's poem: Haunter

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The Voice The Voice

The Voice
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,Saying that now you are not as you wereWhen you had changed from the one who was all to me,But as at first, when our day was fair.Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,Standing as when I drew near to the townWhere you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,Even to the original air-blue gown!Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessnessTravelling across the wet mead to me here,You being ever consigned to existlessness,Heard no more again far or near? Thus I;

Lament Lament

How she would have lovedA party to-day! -Bright-hatted and gloved,With table and trayAnd chairs on the lawnHer smiles would have shoneWith welcomings . . . ButShe is shut, she is shut From friendship's spell In the jailing shell Of her tiny cell.Or she would have reignedAt a dinner to-nightWith ardours unfeigned,And a generous delight;All in her abodeShe'd have freely bestowedOn her guests . . . But alas,She is shut under grass Where no cups flow, Powerless to know That it might be so.And she would have soughtWith a child's eager glanceThe shy snowdrops broughtBy the new year's advance,And peered in the