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.