Thomas Hardy — Dream of the City Shopwoman

’Twere sweet to have a comrade here, Who’d vow to love this garreteer, By city people’s snap and sneer        &nbsp       &nbsp Tried oft and hard! We’d rove a truant cock and hen To some snug solitary glen, And never be seen to haunt again        &nbsp       &nbsp This teeming yard. Within a cot of thatch and clay We’d list the flitting pipers play, Our lives a twine of good and gay        &nbsp       &nbsp Enwreathed discreetly; Our blithest deeds so neighbouring wise That doves should coo in soft surprise, “These must belong to Paradise        &nbsp       &nbsp Who live so sweetly.” Our clock should be the closing flowers, Our sprinkle-bath the passing showers, Our church the alleyed willow bowers,        &nbsp       &nbsp The truth our theme; And infant shapes might soon abound: Their shining heads would dot us round Like mushroom balls on grassy ground . . .        &nbsp       &nbsp - But all is dream! O God, that creatures framed to feel A yearning nature’s strong appeal Should writhe on this eternal wheel        &nbsp       &nbsp In rayless grime; And vainly note, with wan regret, Each star of early promise set; Till Death relieves, and they forget        &nbsp       &nbsp Their one Life’s time!