Poem by Thomas Hardy

She, to Him. 1

When you shall see me in the toils of Time, 
My lauded beauties carried off from me, 
My eyes no longer stars as in their prime, 
My name forgot of Maiden Fair and Free; 

When, in your being, heart concedes to mind, 
And judgment, though you scarce its process know, 
Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined, 
And you are irked that they have withered so: 

Remembering mine the loss is, not the blame, 
That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill, 
Knowing me in my soul the very same – 
One who would die to spare you touch of ill! – 
Will you not grant to old affection’s claim 
The hand of friendship down Life’s sunless hill? 

1. An Expostulation
2. Her Love-Birds
3. The Collector Cleans His Picture
4. The Aërolite
5. The Harvest-Supper

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