Thomas Hardy — The Sunshade

Ah—it's the skeleton of a lady's sunshade,         Here at my feet in the hard rock's chink,         Merely a naked sheaf of wires! -         Twenty years have gone with their livers and diers         Since it was silked in its white or pink. Noonshine riddles the ribs of the sunshade,         No more a screen from the weakest ray;         Nothing to tell us the hue of its dyes,         Nothing but rusty bones as it lies         In its coffin of stone, unseen till to-day. Where is the woman who carried that sun-shade         Up and down this seaside place? -         Little thumb standing against its stem,         Thoughts perhaps bent on a love-stratagem,         Softening yet more the already soft face! Is the fair woman who carried that sunshade         A skeleton just as her property is,         Laid in the chink that none may scan?         And does she regret—if regret dust can -         The vain things thought when she flourished this? SWANAGE CLIFFS.