|
|
She - At His Funeral
By Thomas Hardy
They bear him to his resting-place -
In slow procession sweeping by;
I follow at a stranger's space;
His kindred they, his sweetheart I.
Unchanged my gown of garish dye,
Though sable-sad is their attire;
But they stand round with griefless eye,
Whilst my regret consumes like fire!
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 556 times.
|
|
