Poem by Thomas Hardy

* * *

I LOOK into my glass,
And view my wasting skin,
And say, "Would God it came to pass
My heart had shrunk as thin!"

For then, I, undistrest
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.

But Time, to make me grieve,
Part steals, lets part abide;
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide. 

1. On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth
2. The Month’s Calendar
3. The Dead Bastard
4. In Death Divided
5. Paths of Former Time

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