This poem is taken from PN Review 88, Volume 19 Number 2, November - December 1992.
To Donald Davie, Hardy of wessexWe go back to find him,
thinking we can read his face,
like the land's -
Mr Hardy's, writer,
late of Max Gate, Dorchester.
What we want him to be, he is:
our elegist, whose heart lies
in the mould that shaped it -
from which we conjure him,
melancholy as a robin in winter
...
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 286 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are not a subscriber and would like to enjoy the 286 issues containing over 11,500 poems, articles, reports, interviews and reviews, why not subscribe to the website today?
