Thomas Hardy — A Two-years’ Idyll

       &nbsp       &nbsp Yes; such it was;        &nbsp Just those two seasons unsought, Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways;        &nbsp       &nbsp Moving, as straws,        &nbsp Hearts quick as ours in those days; Going like wind, too, and rated as nought        &nbsp Save as the prelude to plays        &nbsp Soon to come - larger, life-fraught:        &nbsp       &nbsp Yes; such it was.        &nbsp       &nbsp “Nought” it was called,        &nbsp Even by ourselves - that which springs Out of the years for all flesh, first or last,        &nbsp       &nbsp Commonplace, scrawled        &nbsp Dully on days that go past. Yet, all the while, it upbore us like wings        &nbsp Even in hours overcast:        &nbsp Aye, though this best thing of things,        &nbsp       &nbsp “Nought” it was called!        &nbsp       &nbsp What seems it now?        &nbsp Lost: such beginning was all; Nothing came after: romance straight forsook        &nbsp       &nbsp Quickly somehow        &nbsp Life when we sped from our nook, Primed for new scenes with designs smart and tall . . .        &nbsp - A preface without any book,        &nbsp A trumpet uplipped, but no call;        &nbsp       &nbsp That seems it now.