Nobody says: Ah, that is the place <br />Where chanced, in the hollow of years ago, <br />What none of the Three Towns cared to know - <br />The birth of a little girl of grace - <br />The sweetest the house saw, first or last; <br />Yet it was so <br />On that day long past. <br /> <br /> <br />Nobody thinks: There, there she lay <br />In a room by the Hoe, like the bud of a flower, <br />And listened, just after the bedtime hour, <br />To the stammering chimes that used to play <br />The quaint Old Hundred-and-Thirteenth tune <br />In Saint Andrew's tower <br />Night, morn, and noon. <br /> <br /> <br />Nobody calls to mind that here <br />Upon Boterel Hill, where the carters skid, <br />With cheeks whose airy flush outbid <br />Fresh fruit in bloom, and free of fear, <br />She cantered down, as if she must fall <br />(Though she never did), <br />To the charm of all. <br /> <br /> <br />Nay: one there is to whom these things, <br />That nobody else's mind calls back, <br />Have a savour that scenes in being lack, <br />And a presence more than the actual brings; <br />To whom to-day is beneaped and stale, <br />And its urgent clack <br />But a vapid tale.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/places-11/
