During Wind and Rain

They sing as they sift their work of blood, As tide pushes the shore at half deep, And the silver blades in the honey flood Behold the shapes upon tombstones leap.

But when the dusk shall steal away The remnants to their cold-gripped clay, I too shall blend with their morning clump To seek where rivals cast e’er their thump.

And true will come that questioning sphere, From the hearth of gold, along this fear, To stay the final pulsing light, And wait, till all finds its respite.

• Thomas Hardy