Thomas Hardy

The Moon Looks In

I

I have risen again,
And awhile survey
By my chilly ray
Through your window-pane
Your upturned face,
As you think, ‘Ah – she
Now dreams of me
In her distant place!’

II

I pierce her blind
In her far-off home:
She fixes a comb,
And says in her mind,
‘I start in an hour;
Whom shall I meet?
Won’t the men be sweet,
And the women sour!’