Explore "Her Song" by Thomas Hardy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I SANG that song on Sunday, / To witch 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 bending face / And my hanging hair, / And time untouched me with a trace / Of soul-smart or despair?