Explore "The Dream is-Which?" by Thomas Hardy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I AM laughing by the brook with her, / Splashed in its tumbling stir; / And then it is a blankness looms / As if I walked not there, / Nor she, but found me in haggard rooms, / And treading a lonely stair.
With radiant cheeks and rapid eyes / We sit where none espies; / Till a harsh change comes edging in / As no such scene were there, / But winter, and I were bent and thin, / And cinder-gray my hair.
We dance in heys around the hall, / Weightless as thistleball; / And then a curtain drops between, / As if I danced not there, / But wandered through a mounded green / To find her, I knew where.