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The Place On The Map Post by :Zaahn Category :Poems Author :Thomas Hardy Date :December 2010 Read :3275

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The Place On The Map


I look upon the map that hangs by me -
Its shires and towns and rivers lined in varnished artistry -
And I mark a jutting height
Coloured purple, with a margin of blue sea.


--'Twas a day of latter summer, hot and dry;
Ay, even the waves seemed drying as we walked on, she and I,
By this spot where, calmly quite,
She informed me what would happen by and by.


This hanging map depicts the coast and place,
And resuscitates therewith our unexpected troublous case
All distinctly to my sight,
And her tension, and the aspect of her face.


Weeks and weeks we had loved beneath that blazing blue,
Which had lost the art of raining, as her eyes to-day had too,
While she told what, as by sleight,
Shot our firmament with rays of ruddy hue.


For the wonder and the wormwood of the whole
Was that what in realms of reason would have joyed our double soul
Wore a torrid tragic light
Under order-keeping's rigorous control.


So, the map revives her words, the spot, the time,
And the thing we found we had to face before the next year's prime;
The charted coast stares bright,
And its episode comes back in pantomime.

(The end)
Thomas Hardy's poem: Place On The Map

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Where The Picnic Was Where The Picnic Was

Where The Picnic Was
Where we made the fire,In the summer time,Of branch and briarOn the hill to the seaI slowly climbThrough winter mire,And scan and traceThe forsaken placeQuite readily.Now a cold wind blows,And the grass is gray,But the spot still showsAs a burnt circle--aye,And stick-ends, charred,Still strew the swardWhereon I stand,Last relic of the bandWho came that day!Yes, I am hereJust as last year,And the sea breathes brineFrom its strange straight lineUp hither, the sameAs when we four came.- But two have wandered farFrom this grassy riseInto urban roarWhere no picnics are,And one--has shut her eyesFor evermore.(The end)Thomas Hardy's poem: Where The Picnic Was

In Death Divided In Death Divided

In Death Divided
I I shall rot here, with those whom in their day You never knew, And alien ones who, ere they chilled to clay, Met not my view,Will in your distant grave-place ever neighbour you.II No shade of pinnacle or tree or tower, While earth endures, Will fall on my mound and within the hour Steal on to yours;One robin never haunt our two green covertures.III Some organ may resound on Sunday noons By where you lie, Some other thrill the panes with other tunes Where moulder I;No selfsame chords compose our common lullaby.IV The simply-cut memorial at my head Perhaps may