• In a world of separation, art connects


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During Wind and Rain

They sing their dearest songs—

He, she, all of them—yea,

Treble and tenor and bass,

And one to play;

With the candles mooning each face. . . .

Ah, no; the years O!

How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!


They clear the creeping moss—

Elders and juniors—aye,

Making the pathways neat

And the garden gay;

And they build a shady seat. . . .

Ah, no; the years, the years,

See, the white storm-birds wing across.


They are blithely breakfasting all—

Men and maidens—yea,

Under the summer tree,

With a glimpse of the bay,

While pet fowl come to the knee. . . .

Ah, no; the years O!

And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.


They change to a high new house,

He, she, all of them—aye,

Clocks and carpets and chairs

On the lawn all day,

And brightest things that are theirs. . . .

Ah, no; the years, the years;

Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.


(Thomas Hardy)



















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The last update: December 2009.

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