The Poetry Corner

I Sometimes Think

By Thomas Hardy

I sometimes think as here I sit Of things I have done, Which seemed in doing not unfit To face the sun: Yet never a soul has paused a whit On such not one. There was that eager strenuous press To sow good seed; There was that saving from distress In the nick of need; There were those words in the wilderness: Who cared to heed? Yet can this be full true, or no? For one did care, And, spiriting into my house, to, fro, Like wind on the stair, Cares still, heeds all, and will, even though I may despair.