Friday, November 14, 2008

The Man He Killed

by Thomas Hardy

Had he and I but met
   By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
   Right many a nipperkin! 

   But ranged as infantry,
   And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
   And killed him in his place. 

   I shot him dead because—
   Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
   That's clear enough; although 

   He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
   Off-hand like—just as I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
   No other reason why. 

   Yes; quaint and curious war is!
   You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
   Or help to half a crown.


You know when if under different circumstances, you think you could be friends with someone? 

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