Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1029

 THOMAS HARDY

822 In Time of 'The Breaking of Nations' * a man harrowing clods

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��In a slow silent walk With an old horse that stumbles and nods Half asleep as they stalk.

Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch-grass;

Yet this will go onward the same Though Dynasties pass.

Yonder a maid and her wight

Come whispering by War's annals will cloud into night

Ere their story die.

��WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT 823 The Desolate City

DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars? Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.

A city taken by storm, where none arc left but the slain.

Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters,

Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. Birds in the boughs were awake, I listen'd to their chaunting; Each one sang to his love; only I was alone. 1 Jer. li. 20.

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