"Gone," I call them, gone for good, that group of local hearts and heads;
Yet at mothy curfew-tide,
And at midnight when the noon-heat breathes it back from walls and leads,
They've a way of whispering to me—fellow-wight who yet abide.

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Quote text and notes from Wikiquote: Thomas Hardy (page history), available under CC BY-SA 4.0. Source quality and labels are our own summary of what Wikiquote records.