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Thomas Hardy - The Rambler
Work rating: Low

I do not see the hills around, 
Nor mark the tints the copses wear; 
I do not note the grassy ground 
And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note 
Of cuckoos hid on either hand, 
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk`s throat 
When eve`s brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree and mead— 
All eloquent of love divine— 
Receives their constant careful heed: 
Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear, 
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see, 
Are those far back ones missed when near, 
And now perceived too late by me!
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