Her Song
John Ireland, Thomas Hardy
I sang that song on Sunday
To which an idle while
I sang that song on Monday
As fittest to beguile:
I sang it as the year outwore
And the new slid in;
I thought not what might shape before
Another would begin
I sang that song in summer
All unforeknowingly
To him as a new-comer
From regions strange to me:
I sang it when in afteryears
The shades stretched out
And paths were faint; and flocking fears
Brought cup-eyed care and doubt
Sings he that song on Sundays
In some dim land afar
On Saturdays, or Mondays
As when the evening star
Glimpsed in upon his bеnding face
And my hanging hair
And time untouched mе with a trace
Of soul-smart or despair?