Thomas Hardy Home Poems

When the wasting embers redden the chimney-breast,
And Life's bare pathway looms like a desert track to me,
And from hall and parlour the living have gone to their rest,
My perished people who housed them here come back to me.
...

"Men know but little more than we,
Who count us least of things terrene,
How happy days are made to be!
...

To my native place
Bent upon returning,
Bosom all day burning
To be where my race
...