Thomas Hardy — By The Runic Stone

(Two who became a story)         By the Runic Stone    They sat, where the grass sloped down, And chattered, he white-hatted, she in brown,         Pink-faced, breeze-blown.         Rapt there alone    In the transport of talking so In such a place, there was nothing to let them know         What hours had flown.         And the die thrown    By them heedlessly there, the dent It was to cut in their encompassment,         Were, too, unknown.         It might have strown    Their zest with qualms to see, As in a glass, Time toss their history         From zone to zone!