This poem is taken from PN Review 88, Volume 19 Number 2, November - December 1992.
To Donald Davie, Hardy of wessex
We go back to find him,
thinking we can read his face,
like the land's -
Mr Hardy's, writer,
late of Max Gate, Dorchester.
What we want him to be, he is:
our elegist, whose heart lies
in the mould that shaped it -
from which we conjure him,
melancholy as a robin in winter
...
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