Poem by Thomas Hardy

She, to Him. 4

This love puts all humanity from me; 
I can but maledict her, pray her dead, 
For giving love and getting love of thee – 
Feeding a heart that else mine own had fed! 

How much I love I know not, life not known, 
Save as one unit I would add love by; 
But this I know, my being is but thine own – 
Fused from its separateness by ecstasy. 

And thus I grasp thy amplitudes, of her 
Ungrasped, though helped by nigh-regarding eyes; 
Canst thou then hate me as an envier 
Who see unrecked what I so dearly prize? 
Believe me, Lost One, Love is lovelier 
The more it shapes its moan in selfish-wise. 

1. The End of the Episode
2. Barthelemon at Vauxhall
3. The Month’s Calendar
4. Revulsion
5. At Waking

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