WB YEATS
Men’s hearts of old were drops of flame,
Who could have foretold the heart would die?
Yeats wrote one day in his noon-tide dream.
When Hardy viewed his wasting skin,
His grieving gave Yeats’ words the lie -
Age had reserved a gift for him.
Time consumed Yeats’ fragile frame,
He bade his friends to heave no sigh,
And burned on like the midday sun.
The evening flame turned no cold eye,
It throbbed as the horses’ hooves drummed by.
©Terry Hodgson2020
THOMAS HARDY
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