if life were fair

não seria possível comprar os Selected Poems de Thomas Hardy por um euro. (outro autor estranhamente sem tag pois sempre foi um dos do coração. Jude... como é a memória. lembro-me do sofá onde li os últimos capítulos deste livro e das janelas atrás de mim, era noite. deve ter sido há vinte cinco anos, tirando ou pondo)

um poema que alude à sua irmã, morta.

Logs on the Hearth
A memory of a sister

  No more summer for Molly and me;
      There is snow on the tree,
   And the blackbirds plump large as the rooks are, almost,
      And the water is hard
Where they used to dip bills at the dawn ere her figure was lost
      To these coasts, now my prison close-barred.

   No more planting by Molly and me
      Where the beds used to be
   Of sweet-william; no training the clambering rose
      By the framework of fir
Now bowering the pathway, whereon it swings gaily and blows
      As if calling commendment from her.

   No more jauntings by Molly and me
      To the town by the sea,
   Or along over Whitesheet to Wynyard's green Gap,
      Catching Montacute Crest
To the right against Sedgmoor, and Corton-Hill's far-distant cap,
      And Pilsdon and Lewsdon to west.

   No more singing by Molly to me
      In the evenings when she
   Was in mood and in voice, and the candles were lit,
      And past the porch-quoin
The rays would spring out on the laurels; and dumbledores hit
      On the pane, as if wishing to join.

   Where, then, is Molly, who's no more with me?
     --As I stand on this lea,
   Thinking thus, there's a many-flamed star in the air,
      That tosses a sign
That her glance is regarding its face from her home, so that there
      Her eyes may have meetings with mine.