A poem by Thomas Hardy

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Why does she turn in that shy soft wayWhenever she stirs the fire,And kiss to the chimney-corner wall,As if entranced to admireIts whitewashed bareness more than the sightOf a rose in richest green?I have known her long, but this raptured riteI never before have seen.- Well, once when her son cast his shadow there,A friend took a pencil and drew himUpon that flame-lit wall. And the linesHad a lifelike semblance to him.And there long stayed his familiar look;But one day, ere she knew,The whitener came to cleanse the nook,And covered the face from view."Yes," he said: "My brush goes on with a rush,And the draught is buried under;When you have to whiten old cots and brighten,What else can you do, I wonder?"But she knows he's there. And when she yearnsFor him, deep in the labouring night,She sees him as close at hand, and turnsTo him under his sheet of white.