The Death of Regret by Thomas Hardy — Read

I OPENED my shutter at sunrise, / And looked at the hill hard by, / And I heartily grieved for the comrade / Who wandered up there to die.

I let in the morn on the morrow, / And failed not to think of him then, / As he trod up that rise in the twilight, / And never came down again.

I undid the shutter a week thence, / But not until after I'd turned / Did I call back his last departure / By the upland there discerned.

Uncovering the casement long later, / I bent to my toil till the gray, / When I said to myself, "Ah-what ails me, / To forget him all the day!"

As daily I flung back the shutter / In the same blank bald routine, / He scarcely once rose to remembrance / Through a month of my facing the scene.

And ah, seldom now do I ponder / At the window as heretofore / On the long valued one who died yonder, / And wastes by the sycamore.