The Poetry Corner

The Puzzled Game-Birds - (Triolet)

By Thomas Hardy

They are not those who used to feed us When we were young - they cannot be - These shapes that now bereave and bleed us? They are not those who used to feed us, - For would they not fair terms concede us? - If hearts can house such treachery They are not those who used to feed us When we were young - they cannot be!