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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