| Thomas Hardy (1840–1928). Wessex Poems and Other Verses. 1898. |
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| 40. To a Lady |
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| NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe, | |
| Never to press thy cosy cushions more, | |
| Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore, | |
| Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me: | |
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| Knowing thy natural receptivity, | 5 |
| I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve, | |
| My sombre image, warped by insidious heave | |
| Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee. | |
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| So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams | |
| Of me and mine diminish day by day, | 10 |
| And yield their space to shine of smugger things; | |
| Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams, | |
| And then in far and feeble visitings, | |
| And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway. | |
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