Thomas Hardy — Her Father

I met her, as we had privily planned, Where passing feet beat busily: She whispered: "Father is at hand!        &nbsp He wished to walk with me." His presence as he joined us there Banished our words of warmth away; We felt, with cloudings of despair,        &nbsp What Love must lose that day. Her crimson lips remained unkissed, Our fingers kept no tender hold, His lack of feeling made the tryst        &nbsp Embarrassed, stiff, and cold. A cynic ghost then rose and said, "But is his love for her so small That, nigh to yours, it may be read        &nbsp As of no worth at all? "You love her for her pink and white; But what when their fresh splendours close? His love will last her in despite        &nbsp Of Time, and wrack, and foes."