Thomas Hardy — Surview

A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire        &nbsp Made me gaze where it seemed to be: ’Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me On how I had walked when my sun was higher -        &nbsp My heart in its arrogancy. “You held not to whatsoever was true,”        &nbsp Said my own voice talking to me: “Whatsoever was just you were slack to see; Kept not things lovely and pure in view,”        &nbsp Said my own voice talking to me. “You slighted her that endureth all,”        &nbsp Said my own voice talking to me; “Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully; That suffereth long and is kind withal,”        &nbsp Said my own voice talking to me. “You taught not that which you set about,”        &nbsp Said my own voice talking to me; “That the greatest of things is Charity. . . ” - And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,        &nbsp And my voice ceased talking to me.