Thomas Hardy — He Fears His Good Fortune

There was a glorious time At an epoch of my prime; Mornings beryl-bespread, And evenings golden-red;         Nothing gray: And in my heart I said, "However this chanced to be, It is too full for me, Too rare, too rapturous, rash, Its spell must close with a crash         Some day!" The radiance went on Anon and yet anon, And sweetness fell around Like manna on the ground.         "I've no claim," Said I, "to be thus crowned: I am not worthy this:- Must it not go amiss? - Well . . . let the end foreseen Come duly!—I am serene."          —And it came.