Thomas Hardy — Fetching Her

       &nbsp An hour before the dawn,        &nbsp       &nbsp My friend, You lit your waiting bedside-lamp,        &nbsp Your breakfast-fire anon, And outing into the dark and damp        &nbsp You saddled, and set on.        &nbsp Thuswise, before the day,        &nbsp       &nbsp My friend, You sought her on her surfy shore,        &nbsp To fetch her thence away Unto your own new-builded door        &nbsp For a staunch lifelong stay.        &nbsp You said: “It seems to be,        &nbsp       &nbsp My friend, That I were bringing to my place        &nbsp The pure brine breeze, the sea, The mews - all her old sky and space,        &nbsp In bringing her with me!”        &nbsp - But time is prompt to expugn,        &nbsp       &nbsp My friend, Such magic-minted conjurings:        &nbsp The brought breeze fainted soon, And then the sense of seamews’ wings,        &nbsp And the shore’s sibilant tune.        &nbsp So, it had been more due,        &nbsp       &nbsp My friend, Perhaps, had you not pulled this flower        &nbsp From the craggy nook it knew, And set it in an alien bower;        &nbsp But left it where it grew!