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The Sun On The Letter
By Thomas Hardy
I drew the letter out, while gleamed
The sloping sun from under a roof
Of cloud whose verge rose visibly.
The burning ball flung rays that seemed
Stretched like a warp without a woof
Across the levels of the lea
To where I stood, and where they beamed
As brightly on the page of proof
That she had shown her false to me
As if it had shown her true - had teemed
With passionate thought for my behoof
Expressed with their own ardency!
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