Thomas Hardy — I Was Not He

I was not he-the man Who used to pilgrim to your gate, At whose smart step you grew elate, And rosed, as maidens can, For a brief span. It was not I who sang Beside the keys you touched so true With note-bent eyes, as if with you It counted not whence sprang The voice that rang . . . Yet though my destiny It was to miss your early sweet, You still, when turned to you my feet, Had sweet enough to be A prize for me!