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Read more poems by Thomas Hardy: Thomas Hardy Poems at Poetry X.

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The Pity Of It

Thomas Hardy

I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar
From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
In field and farmstead many an ancient word
Of local lineage like "Thu bist," "Er war,"
"Ich woll," "Er sholl," and by-talk similar,
Nigh as they speak who in this month's moon gird
At England's very loins, thereunto spurred
By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are. 

Then seemed a Heart crying: "Whosoever they be
At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame
Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we,
Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame;
May their familiars grow to shun their name,
And their brood perish everlastingly." 

Added: 25 Feb 2002 | Last Read: 22 Apr 2018 8:09 AM | Viewed: 4467 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/2779/ | Viewed on 22 April 2018.
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