Explore "Surview" by Thomas Hardy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"Cogitavi vias meas"
A CRY from the green-grained sticks of the fire / Made me gaze where it seemed to be: / 'Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me / On how I had walked when my sun was higher- / My heart in its arrogancy.
"_You held not to whatsoever was true_," / Said my own voice talking to me: / "_Whatsoever was just you were slack to see_; / _Kept not things lovely and pure in view_," / Said my own voice talking to me.
"_You slighted her that endureth all_," / Said my own voice talking to me; / "_Vaunteth not_, _trusteth hopefully_; / _That suffereth long and is kind withal_," / Said my own voice talking to me.
"_You taught not that which you set about_," / Said my own voice talking to me; / "_That the greatest of things is Charity_... " / -And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out, / And my voice ceased talking to me.