Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) The Voice
Woman much missed, how you call
to me, call to me,
that now you are not as you were
you had changed from the one who was all to me,
as at first, when our day was fair.
it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
to the original air-blue gown!
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.