Thomas Hardy

A Gentleman’s Epitaph on Himself and a Lady, Who Were Buried Together

I dwelt in the shade of a city,
She far by the sea,
With folk perhaps good, gracious, witty;
But never with me.

Her form on the ballroom’s smooth flooring
I never once met,
To guide her with accents adoring
Through Weippert’s ‘First Set’.1

I spent my life’s seasons with pale ones
In Vanity Fair,
And she enjoyed hers among hale ones
In salt-smelling air.

Maybe she had eyes of deep colour,
Maybe they were blue,
Maybe as she aged they got duller;
That never I knew.

She may have had lips like the coral,
But I never kissed them,
Saw pouting, nor curling in quarrel,
Nor sought for, nor missed them.

Not a word passed of love all our lifetime,
Between us, nor thrill;
We’d never a husband-and-wife time,
For good or for ill.

Yet as one dust, through bleak days and vernal
Lie I and lies she,
This never-known lady, eternal
Companion to me!

1 Quadrilles danced early in the nineteenth century.