The Voice
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me, Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness Thus I; faltering forward, (THOMAS HARDY)
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever consigned to existlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward
And the woman calling.
