Poetry

The Morning After




The Lodging-house Fuschias

Mrs.Masters's fuchsias hung

Higher and broader, and brightly swung

           Bell-like, more and more

Over the narrow garden-path,

Giving the passer a sprinkle-bath

            In the morning.


She put up with their pushful ways,

And made us tenderly lift their sprays,

              Going to her door:

But when her funeral had to pass

They cut back all the flowery mass

               In the morning.

Thomas Hardy(1928)



Such a sad allegory.
How often do folk take care of our fuchsias when we are no longer protecting them?

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