Thomas Hardy — He Abjures Love

At last I put off love,          For twice ten years The daysman of my thought,          And hope, and doing; Being ashamed thereof,          And faint of fears And desolations, wrought         In his pursuing, Since first in youthtime those          Disquietings That heart-enslavement brings          To hale and hoary, Became my housefellows,          And, fool and blind, I turned from kith and kind          To give him glory. I was as children be          Who have no care; I did not shrink or sigh,          I did not sicken; But lo, Love beckoned me,          And I was bare, And poor, and starved, and dry,          And fever-stricken. Too many times ablaze          With fatuous fires, Enkindled by his wiles          To new embraces, Did I, by wilful ways          And baseless ires, Return the anxious smiles          Of friendly faces. No more will now rate I          The common rare, The midnight drizzle dew,          The gray hour golden, The wind a yearning cry,          The faulty fair, Things dreamt, of comelier hue          Than things beholden! . . . —I speak as one who plumbs          Life's dim profound, One who at length can sound          Clear views and certain. But—after love what comes?          A scene that lours, A few sad vacant hours,          And then, the Curtain.