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Thomas Hardy : Beeny Cliff

O the opal and the sapphire of that wandering 
				western sea,
And the woman riding high above with bright hair 
				flapping free—
The woman whom I loved so, and who loyally loved 

The pale mews plained below us, and the waves 
				seemed far away
In a nether sky, engrossed in saying their ceaseless 
				babbling say,
As we laughed light-heartedly aloft on that clear-
				sunned March day.

A little cloud then cloaked us, and there flew an irised 
And the Atlantic dyed its levels with a dull 
				misfeatured stain,
And then the sun burst out again, and purples 
				prinked the main.

—Still in all its chasmal beauty bulks old Beeny to the 
And shall she and I not go there once again now 
				March is nigh,
And the sweet things said in that March say anew 
				there by and by?

What if still in chasmal beauty looms that wild weird 
				western shore,
The woman now is—elsewhere—whom the ambling 
				pony bore,
And nor knows nor cares for Beeny, and will laugh 
				there never more. 

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)	1913


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