ThomasHardy
IwentbytheDruidstone
Thatbroodsinthegardenwhiteandlone,
AndIstoppedandlookedattheshiftingshadows,
Thatatsomemomentsfallthereon
Fromthetreehardbywitharhythmicswing,
Andtheyshapedinmyimagining
Totheshadethatawell-knownheadandshoulders
Threwtherewhenshewasgardening.
Ithoughtherbehindmyback,
Yea, herIlonghadlearnedtolack,
AndIsaid：“Iamsureyouarestandingbehindme,
Thoughhowdoyougetintothisoldtrack？”
Andtherewasnosoundbutthefallofaleaf
Asasadresponse; andtokeepdownmygrief
Iwouldnotturnmyheadtodiscover
Thattherewasnothinginmybelief.
YetIwantedtolookandsee
Thatnobodystoodatthebackofme;
ButIthoughtoncemore：“Nay, I'llnotunvision
Ashapewhich, somehow, theremaybe.”
SoIwentonsoftlyfromtheglade,
Andleftherbehindmethrowinghershade,
Asshewereindeedallapparition—
Myheadunturnedlestmydreamshouldfade.
