Joys Of Memory

Thomas Hardy

   When the spring comes round, and a certain day
Looks out from the brume by the eastern copsetrees
         And says, Remember,
      I begin again, as if it were new,
      A day of like date I once lived through,
      Whiling it hour by hour away;
         So shall I do till my December,
            When spring comes round.

   I take my holiday then and my rest
Away from the dun life here about me,
         Old hours re-greeting
      With the quiet sense that bring they must
      Such throbs as at first, till I house with dust,
      And in the numbness my heartsome zest
         For things that were, be past repeating
            When spring comes round.

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