Tuesday Poem

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The Lodging House Fuchsias

Mrs Master’s fuchsias hung
Higher and broader and brightly swung
Bell-like, more and more
Over the narrow garden path,
Giving the passer-by a sprinkle bath
In the morning

She put up with their pushful ways
And made us tenderly lift their sprays,
Going to her door:
But when her funeral had to pass
They cut back all the flowery mass
In the morning.

Thomas Hardy
 
I've joined Mary McCallum's Tuesday Poem group. This is my first entry.