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Thomas Hardy Short Poems

Famous Short Thomas Hardy Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Thomas Hardy. A collection of the all-time best Thomas Hardy short poems

by Thomas Hardy
 Around the house the flakes fly faster, 
And all the berries now are gone 
From holly and cotoneaster 
Around the house.
The flakes fly!--faster Shutting indoors that crumb-outcaster We used to see upon the lawn Around the house.
The flakes fly faster, And all the berries now are gone!

by Thomas Hardy
 How great my grief, my joys how few, 
Since first it was my fate to know thee! 
- Have the slow years not brought to view 
How great my grief, my joys how few, 
Nor memory shaped old times anew, 
 Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee 
How great my grief, my joys how few, 
 Since first it was my fate to know thee?

by Thomas Hardy

If seasons all were summers, 
And leaves would never fall, 
And hopping casement-comers 
Were foodless not at all, 
And fragile folk might be here 
That white winds bid depart; 
Then one I used to see here 
Would warm my wasted heart!


One frail, who, bravely tilling 
Long hours in gripping gusts, 
Was mastered by their chilling, 
And now his ploughshare rusts.
So savage winter catches The breath of limber things, And what I love he snatches, And what I love not, brings.

by Thomas Hardy

Never a careworn wife but shows, 
 If a joy suffuse her, 
Something beautiful to those 
 Patient to peruse her, 
Some one charm the world unknows 
 Precious to a muser, 
Haply what, ere years were foes, 
 Moved her mate to choose her.
II But, be it a hint of rose That an instant hues her, Or some early light or pose Wherewith thought renews her - Seen by him at full, ere woes Practised to abuse her - Sparely comes it, swiftly goes, Time again subdues her.

by Thomas Hardy
 If hours be years the twain are blest, 
For now they solace swift desire 
By bonds of every bond the best, 
If hours be years.
The twain are blest Do eastern stars slope never west, Nor pallid ashes follow fire: If hours be years the twain are blest, For now they solace swift desire.

by Thomas Hardy
 (A Reminiscence, 1893)

She wore a 'terra-cotta' dress,
And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
Within the hansom's dry recess,
Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
 We sat on, snug and warm.
Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain, And the glass that had screened our forms before Flew up, and out she sprang to her door: I should have kissed her if the rain Had lasted a minute more.

by Thomas Hardy
 I'm Smith of Stoke aged sixty odd
I've lived without a dame all my life
And wish to God
My dad had done the same.

by Thomas Hardy
 I am the family face; 
Flesh perishes, I live on, 
Projecting trait and trace 
Through time to times anon, 
And leaping from place to place 
Over oblivion.
The years-heired feature that can In curve and voice and eye Despise the human span Of durance -- that is I; The eternal thing in man, That heeds no call to die

by Thomas Hardy

Last year I called this world of gain-givings 
The darkest thinkable, and questioned sadly 
If my own land could heave its pulse less gladly, 
So charged it seemed with circumstance whence springs 
 The tragedy of things.
II Yet at that censured time no heart was rent Or feature blanched of parent, wife, or daughter By hourly blazoned sheets of listed slaughter; Death waited Nature's wont; Peace smiled unshent From Ind to Occident.

by Thomas Hardy
 I look into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, "Would God it came to pass
My heart had shrunk as thin!"

For then, I, undistrest
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.
But Time, to make me grieve, Part steals, lets part abide; And shakes this fragile frame at eve With throbbings of noontide.

by Thomas Hardy
 Here's one in whom Nature feared--faint at such vying - 
Eclipse while he lived, and decease at his dying.

by Thomas Hardy
 Child, were I king, I'd yield my royal rule, 
 My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due, 
My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool, 
My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool, 
 For a glance from you! 

Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs, 
 Angels, the demons abject under me, 
Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs, 
Time, space, all would I give--aye, upper spheres, 
 For a kiss from thee!

by Thomas Hardy
 One without looks in tonight
Through the curtain-chink
From the sheet of glistening white;
One without looks in tonight
As we sit and think 
By the fender-brink.
We do not discern those eyes Watching in the snow; Lit by lamps of rosy dyes We do not discern those eyes Wandering, aglow Four-footed, tiptoe.

by Thomas Hardy

Winter is white on turf and tree, 
 And birds are fled; 
But summer songsters pipe to me, 
 And petals spread, 
For what I dreamt of secretly 
 His lips have said! 


O 'tis a fine May morn, they say, 
 And blooms have blown; 
But wild and wintry is my day, 
 My birds make moan; 
For he who vowed leaves me to pay 

by Thomas Hardy
 My spirit will not haunt the mound
Above my breast,
But travel, memory-possessed,
To where my tremulous being found
Life largest, best.
My phantom-footed shape will go When nightfall grays Hither and thither along the ways I and another used to know In backward days.
And there you'll find me, if a jot You still should care For me, and for my curious air; If otherwise, then I shall not, For you, be there.

by Thomas Hardy
 Knight, a true sister-love 
 This heart retains; 
Ask me no other love, 
 That way lie pains! 

Calm must I view thee come, 
 Calm see thee go; 
Tale-telling tears of thine 
 I must not know

by Thomas Hardy
 A star looks down at me, 
And says: "Here I and you
Stand each in our degree: 
What do you mean to do,—

 Mean to do?"

I say: "For all I know,
Wait, and let Time go by,
Till my change come.
"—"Just so," The star says: "So mean I:— So mean I.

by Thomas Hardy
 Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at its foot:
This branch may be his wife,
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.
These grasses must be made Of her who often prayed, Last century, for repose; And the fair girl long ago Whom I often tried to know May be entering this rose.
So, they are not underground, But as nerves and veins abound In the growths of upper air, And they feel the sun and rain, And the energy again That made them what they were!

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!

by Thomas Hardy
 "Thou shalt be--Nothing.
"--Omar Khayyam.
"Tombless, with no remembrance.
Dead shalt thou lie; and nought Be told of thee or thought, For thou hast plucked not of the Muses' tree: And even in Hades' halls Amidst thy fellow-thralls No friendly shade thy shade shall company!

by Thomas Hardy
 Once more the cauldron of the sun 
Smears the bookcase with winy red, 
And here my page is, and there my bed, 
And the apple-tree shadows travel along.
Soon their intangible track will be run, And dusk grow strong And they have fled.
Yes: now the boiling ball is gone, And I have wasted another day.
But wasted--wasted, do I say? Is it a waste to have imagined one Beyond the hills there, who, anon, My great deeds done, Will be mine alway?

by Thomas Hardy
 They are not those who used to feed us 
When we were young--they cannot be - 
These shapes that now bereave and bleed us? 
They are not those who used to feed us, - 
For would they not fair terms concede us? 
- If hearts can house such treachery 
They are not those who used to feed us 
When we were young--they cannot be!

by Thomas Hardy
Only a man harrowing clods
In a slow silent walk
With an old horse that stumbles and nods
Half asleep as they stalk.
II Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch-grass; Yet this will go onwards the same Though Dynasties pass.
III Yonder a maid and her wight Go whispering by: War's annals will cloud into night Ere their story die.

by Thomas Hardy
 Whence comes Solace?--Not from seeing 
What is doing, suffering, being, 
Not from noting Life's conditions, 
Nor from heeding Time's monitions; 
 But in cleaving to the Dream, 
 And in gazing at the gleam 
 Whereby gray things golden seem.
II Thus do I this heyday, holding Shadows but as lights unfolding, As no specious show this moment With its irised embowment; But as nothing other than Part of a benignant plan; Proof that earth was made for man.

by Thomas Hardy

Here's the mould of a musical bird long passed from light, 
Which over the earth before man came was winging; 
There's a contralto voice I heard last night, 
That lodges with me still in its sweet singing.
II Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard, In the full-fuged song of the universe unending.

Book: Shattered Sighs