Three songs to poems by Thomas Hardy - 2-John Ireland

[00:05.07]I sang that song on Sunday, [00:08.99]To witch an idle while, [00:13.42]I sang that song on Monday, [00:17.20]As fittest to beguile; [00:21.24]I sang it as the year outwore, [00:25.36]And the new slid in; [00:29.85]I thought not what might shape before [00:33.72]Another would begin. [00:38.70] [00:42.58]I sang that song in summer, [00:46.41]All unforeknowingly, [00:50.08]To him as a new-comer [00:53.70]From regions strange to me: [00:57.73]I sang it when in afteryears [01:01.77]The shades stretched out, [01:05.95]And paths were faint; and flocking fears [01:10.43]Brought cup-eyed care and doubt. [01:15.11] [01:22.32]Sings he that song on Sundays [01:25.55]In some dim land afar, [01:29.82]On Saturdays, or Mondays, [01:33.86]As when the evening star [01:37.33]Glimpsed in upon his bending face [01:42.32]And my hanging hair, [01:50.05]And time untouched me with a trace [01:53.82]Of soul-smart or despair?