Poem Thomas Hardy

She at His Funeral

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    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!

Her Dilemma in —— Church
Neutral Tones

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