The Walk

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You did not walk with me
Of late to the hill-top tree
 As in earlier days,
 By the gated ways:
 You were weak and lame,
 So you never came,
And I went alone, and I did not mind,
Not thinking of you as left behind.


I walked up there to-day
Just in the former way:
 Surveyed around
 The familiar ground
 By myself again:
 What difference, then?
Only that underlying sense
Of the look of a room on returning thence.

© Thomas Hardy