The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn, And centres its gaze on me; The stars, like eyes in reverie, Their westering as for a while forborne, Quiz downward curiously. Old Robert draws the backbrand in, The green logs steam and spit; The half-awakened sparrows flit From the riddled thatch; and owls begin To whoo from the gable-slit. Yes; far and nigh things seem to know Sweet scenes are impending here; That all is prepared; that the hour is near For welcomes, fellowships, and flow Of sally, song, and cheer; That spigots are pulled and viols strung; That soon will arise the sound Of measures trod to tunes renowned; That She will return in Love's low tongue My vows as we wheel around.
The Mound
 [incomplete]Song Cycle by Gerald Finzi (1901 - 1956)
1. The Night of the Dance  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Authorship:
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928), "The night of the dance", appears in Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses, first published 1909
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]2. The subalterns  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
"Poor wanderer," said the leaden sky, "I fain would lighten thee, But there are laws in force on high Which say it must not be." -- "I would not freeze thee, shorn one," cried The North, "knew I but how To warm my breath, to slack my stride; But I am ruled as thou." -- "To-morrow I attack thee, wight," Said Sickness. "Yet I swear I bear thy little ark no spite, But am bid enter there." -- "Come hither, Son," I heard Death say; "I did not will a grave Should end thy pilgrimage to-day, But I, too, am a slave!" We smiled upon each other then, And life to me had less Of that fell look it wore ere when They owned their passiveness.
Authorship:
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928), "The subalterns"
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First published in Current Literature, 1902Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
3. The Mound  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
My spirit will not haunt the mound Above my breast, But travel, memory-possessed, To where my tremulous being found Life largest, best. My phantom-footed shape will go When nightfall grays Hither and thither along the ways I and another used to know In backward days. And there you'll find me, if a jot You still should care For me, and for my curious air; If otherwise, then I shall not, For you, be there.
Authorship:
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)
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First published in Poetry and Drama, December 1913Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
Total word count: 322