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Thomas Hardy - The Moon Looks In
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I 

I have risen again,
And awhile survey
By my chilly ray
Through your window-pane
Your upturned face,
As you think, `Ah — she
Now dreams of me
In her distant place!`


            II 

I pierce her blind
In her far-off home:
She fixes a comb,
And says in her mind,
`I start in an hour;
Whom shall I meet?
Won`t the men be sweet,
And the women sour!`
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