I wayfared at the nadir of the sun Where populations meet, though seen of none;

'More than one cuckoo?' And the little boy Seemed to lose something Of his spring joy. When he'd grown up He told his son He'd used to think There was only one Who came each year With the trees' new trim On purpose to please England and him ...

A race with the sun as he downed I ran at evetide, Intent who should first gain the ground And there hide. He beat me by some minutes then, But I triumphed anon, For when he'd to rise up again. I stayed on. "Cynic's Epitaph"

I'm Smith of Stoke, aged sixty-odd, I've lived without a dame From youth-time on; and would to God My dad had done the same. "Epitaph on a Pessimist"

A world I did not wish to enter Took me and poised me on my centre, Made me grimace, and foot, and prance, As cats on hot bricks have to dance Strange jigs to keep them from the floor, Till they sink down and feel no more. "A Necessitarian's Epitaph"

I met you first - ah, when did I first meet you? When I was full of wonder, and innocent, Standing meek-eyed with those of choric bent While dimming day grew dimmer In the pulpit-glimmer.

When you are dead, and stand to me Not differenced, as now, But like again, will you be cold As when we lived, or how?

My department lost a beloved emeritus colleague yesterday. She studied romanticism, but taught the entire 19th century. Sunday, I went to her bedside, where our department was keeping constant vigil--she was never alone--and read her poetry. She was not conscious, but /1

Afterwards by Thomas Hardy When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay, And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings, Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say, "He was a man who used to notice such things?"

Mistress, friend, place, aims to be bettered straightway, Bettered not has Fate or my hand's achievement; Sole the showance those of my onward earth-track -- Never transcended! (from "The Temporary the All")

O POET, come you haunting here Where streets have stolen up all around, And never a nightingale pours one Full-throated sound? ("At a House in Hampstead" Sometime the Dwelling of John Keats, 1920)

Pleasanter now it is to hold That here, where sang he, more of him Remains than where he, tuneless, cold, Passed to the dim. ("At a House in Hampstead," 1920)

IT will be much better when I am under the bough; I shall be more myself, Dear, then, Than I am now. from "When Dead"

Poem of the Day: A Broken Appointment - poetryfoundation.org/poems/50365/a-…

Close your eyes for a peaceful moment and then remember Thomas Hardy’s wonderful: “That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.” #TheDarklingThrush Thomas Hardy Sending you #hope 💓

What a treat- as a huge fan of Hardy’s novels and poetry it was lovely to visit Dorchester and experience some of the inspiration behind his classic books 📚 Thomas Hardy Thomas Hardy Society

Heartstopping last line

Hardy a hundred years ago - in Feb 1922

A "Winter Words" Hardy sentiment in the dregs of winter.