Poem by Thomas Hardy

She, to Him. 3

I will be faithful to thee; aye, I will! 
And Death shall choose me with a wondering eye 
That he did not discern and domicile 
One his by right ever since that last Good-bye! 

I have no care for friends, or kin, or prime 
Of manhood who deal gently with me here; 
Amid the happy people of my time 
Who work their love’s fulfilment, I appear 

Numb as a vane that cankers on its point, 
True to the wind that kissed ere canker came: 
Despised by souls of Now, who would disjoint 
The mind from memory, making Life all aim, 

My old dexterities in witchery gone, 
And nothing left for Love to look upon.

1. The Supplanter
2. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
3. At the Word ‘Farewell’
4. Tragedian to Tragedienne
5. The Three Tall Men

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