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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy, the son of a stonemason, was born in Dorsetshire, England,...
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	FURTHER READING


		Poems About Fathers
		'The child is father to the man.' by Gerard Manley Hopkins

		The Last 4 Things [That hard thread] by Kate Greenstreet

		A Boy and His Dad by Edgar Guest

		A Situation for Mrs. Biswas by Prageeta Sharma

		A Story by Philip Levine

		A Story by Li-Young Lee

		American Primitive by William Jay Smith

		Blood by Naomi Shihab Nye

		Confessions: My Father, Hummingbirds, and Frantz Fanon by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

		Daddy by Sylvia Plath

		Descriptions of Heaven and Hell by Mark Jarman

		Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas

		Father by Edgar Guest

		Father Outside by Nick Flynn

		Father's Day Cards

		from The Princess [Sweet and low, sweet and low] by Lord Alfred Tennyson

		Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World by Sherman Alexie

		Inventing Father In Las Vegas by Lynn Emanuel

		Lay Back the Darkness by Edward Hirsch

		Man of the Year by Robin Becker

		Meeting with My Father in the Orchard by Homero Aridjis

		My Father by Scott Hightower

		my father moved through dooms of love by E. E. Cummings

		My Father on His Shield by Walt McDonald

		My Father Remembers Blue Zebras by Judy Halebsky

		My Father's Hat by Mark Irwin

		My Father's Leaving by Ira Sadoff

		My Papa's Waltz by Theodore Roethke

		Only a Dad by Edgar Guest

		Parents by William Meredith

		Passing by Carl Phillips

		Poems about Fathers

		Renewal [Excerpt] by Chris Abani

		Shaving Your Father's Face by Michael Dickman

		Tended Strength: Gifts of Poetry for Fathers

		The Ferryer by Sharon Olds

		The Idea of Ancestry by Etheridge Knight

		The Idiot by Charles Reznikoff

		The Portrait by Stanley Kunitz

		The Trouble Ball [excerpt] by Martín Espada

		Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden

		To Her Father with Some Verses by Anne Bradstreet

		Whose Mouth Do I Speak With by Suzanne Rancourt

		With Kit, Age 7, at the Beach by William Stafford

		Working Late by Louis Simpson

		Yesterday by W. S. Merwin

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Her Father
by Thomas Hardy

I met her, as we had privily planned, Where passing feet beat busily: She whispered: "Father is at hand! He wished to walk with me." His presence as he joined us there Banished our words of warmth away; We felt, with cloudings of despair, What Love must lose that day. Her crimson lips remained unkissed, Our fingers kept no tender hold, His lack of feeling made the tryst Embarrassed, stiff, and cold. A cynic ghost then rose and said, "But is his love for her so small That, nigh to yours, it may be read As of no worth at all? "You love her for her pink and white; But what when their fresh splendours close? His love will last her in despite Of Time, and wrack, and foes."

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