It was but a little thing,
Yet I knew it meant to me
Ease from what had given a sting
To the very birdsinging
Latterly.
But I would not welcome it;
And for all I then declined
O the regrettings infinite
When the night-processions flit
Through the mind!
The Peace-offering
Thomas Hardy
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Poem topics: night, mind, infinite, sting, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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