I sang that song on Sunday, <br />To witch an idle while, <br />I sang that song on Monday, <br />As fittest to beguile; <br />I sang it as the year outwore, <br />And the new slid in; <br />I thought not what might shape before <br />Another would begin. <br /> <br />I sang that song in summer, <br />All unforeknowingly, <br />To him as a new-comer <br />From regions strange to me: <br />I sang it when in afteryears <br />The shades stretched out, <br />And paths were faint; and flocking fears <br />Brought cup-eyed care and doubt. <br /> <br />Sings he that song on Sundays <br />In some dim land afar, <br />On Saturdays, or Mondays, <br />As when the evening star <br />Glimpsed in upon his bending face <br />And my hanging hair, <br />And time untouched me with a trace <br />Of soul-smart or despair?<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/her-song-5/
