Chris (growing fruit)
Winter Song
A Woman was playing,
A man looking on;
And the mould of her face,
And her neck, and her hair,
Which the rays fell upon
Of the two candles there,
Sent him mentally straying
In some fancy-place
Where pain had no trace.
At the Piano — Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928)
Most of us don’t really think of Hardy as a poet, maybe because his poetry was fairly common and dull — until the death of his wife in 1912. This is all the more remarkable because Hardy and his wife had been estranged for twenty years when she died. Her death seemed to release some deep font of creative remorse, as though he was more affected by his memory of her than by his life with her.
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