To a Lady by Thomas Hardy

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OFFENDED BY A BOOK OF THE WRITER'S

NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe, / Never to press thy cosy cushions more, / Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore, / Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:

Knowing thy natural receptivity, / I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve, / My sombre image, warped by insidious heave / Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee.

So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams / Of me and mine diminish day by day, / And yield their space to shine of smugger things; / Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams, / And then in far and feeble visitings, / And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway.

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