| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 151. The Voice |
| | | By Thomas Hardy |
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| WOMAN much missed, how you call to me, call to me, | |
| Saying that now you are not as you were | |
| When you had changed from the one who was all to me, | |
| But as at first, when our day was fair. | |
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| Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, | 5 |
| Standing as when I drew near to the town | |
| Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then, | |
| Even to the original air-blue gown! | |
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| Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness | |
| Travelling across the wet mead to me here, | 10 |
| You being ever consigned to existlessness, | |
| Heard no more again far or near? | |
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| Thus I; faltering forward, | |
| Leaves around me falling, | |
| Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward | 15 |
| And the woman calling. | |
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