Thomas Hardy

(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

The Death Of Regret


I opened my shutter at sunrise,
And looked at the hill hard by,
And I heartily grieved for the comrade
Who wandered up there to die.


I let in the morn on the morrow,
And failed not to think of him then,
As he trod up that rise in the twilight,
And never came down again.


I undid the shutter a week thence,
But not until after I'd turned
Did I call back his last departure
By the upland there discerned.


Uncovering the casement long later,
I bent to my toil till the gray,
When I said to myself, 'Ah - what ails me,
To forget him all the day!'


As daily I flung back the shutter
In the same blank bald routine,
He scarcely once rose to remembrance
Through a month of my facing the scene.


And ah, seldom now do I ponder
At the window as heretofore
On the long valued one who died yonder,
And wastes by the sycamore.

Submitted: Saturday, April 10, 2010

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