| Thomas Hardy (1840–1928). Wessex Poems and Other Verses. 1898. |
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| 13. She, to Him. I |
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| WHEN you shall see me lined by tool 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; | |
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| When in your being heart concedes to mind, | 5 |
| And judgment, though you scarce its process know, | |
| Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined, | |
| And you are irked that they have withered so: | |
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| Remembering that with me lies not the blame, | |
| That Sportsman Time but rears his brood to kill, | 10 |
| 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?
1866. | |
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