Thomas Hardy (2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

In years defaced and lost,
   Two sat here, transport-tossed,
   Lit by a living love
The wilted world knew nothing of:
   Scared momently
   By gaingivings,
   Then hoping things
   That could not be.

   Of love and us no trace
   Abides upon the place;
   The sun and shadows wheel,
Season and season sereward steal;
   Foul days and fair
   Here, too, prevail,
   And gust and gale
   As everywhere.

   But lonely shepherd souls
   Who bask amid these knolls
   May catch a faery sound
On sleepy noontides from the ground:
   "O not again
   Till Earth outwears
   Shall love like theirs
   Suffuse this glen!"