The Riddle

Thomas Hardy

I

Stretching eyes west
Over the sea,
Wind foul or fair,
Always stood she
Prospect-impressed;
Solely out there
Did her gaze rest,
Never elsewhere
Seemed charm to be.

II

Always eyes east
Ponders she now -
As in devotion -
Hills of blank brow
Where no waves plough.
Never the least
Room for emotion
Drawn from the ocean
Does she allow.

Next 10 Poems

• Thomas Hardy : The Rival
• Thomas Hardy : The Roman Road
• Thomas Hardy : The Ruined Maid
• Thomas Hardy : The Seasons Of Her Year
• Thomas Hardy : The Selfsame Song
• Thomas Hardy : The Self-unseeing
• Thomas Hardy : The Sergeant's Song
• Thomas Hardy : The Sick God
• Thomas Hardy : The Sleep-worker
• Thomas Hardy : The Slow Nature

Previous 10 Poems

• Thomas Hardy : The Respectable Burgher On The Higher Criticism
• Thomas Hardy : The Rambler
• Thomas Hardy : The Puzzled Game-birds
• Thomas Hardy : The Problem
• Thomas Hardy : The Pity Of It
• Thomas Hardy : The Phantom Horsewoman.
• Thomas Hardy : The Peasent's Confession
• Thomas Hardy : The Peasant's Confession
• Thomas Hardy : The Oxen
• Thomas Hardy : The Mother Mourns