by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)
Her song
Language: English
I sang that song on Sunday, To which an idle while, I sang that song on Monday, As fittest to beguile: I sang it as the year outwore, And the new slid in; I thought not what might shape before Another would begin. I sang that song in summer, All unforeknowingly, To him as a new-comer From regions strange to me: I sang it when in afteryears The shades stretched out, And paths were faint; and flocking fears Brought cup-eyed care and doubt. Sings he that song on Sundays In some dim land afar, On Saturdays, or Mondays, As when the evening star Glimpsed in upon his bending face, And my hanging hair, And time untouched me with a trace Of soul-smart or despair?
Authorship:
- by Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928), "Her song", appears in Late Lyrics and Earlier with Many Other Verses, first published 1922 [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by John (Nicholson) Ireland (1879 - 1962), "Her song", 1925, published 1925 [ voice and piano ], from Three Songs to Poems by Thomas Hardy, no. 2 [sung text checked 1 time]
- by Christopher Kaye Le Fleming (b. 1908), "Her song", published 1963 [ soprano, tenor, satb chorus and orchestra ], from Six Country Songs [sung text not yet checked]
Researcher for this page: Ted Perry
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 24
Word count: 124