Thomas Hardy — The Conformers

       &nbsp Yes; we'll wed, my little fay,        &nbsp And you shall write you mine, And in a villa chastely gray        &nbsp We'll house, and sleep, and dine.        &nbsp But those night-screened, divine,        &nbsp Stolen trysts of heretofore, We of choice ecstasies and fine        &nbsp       &nbsp Shall know no more.        &nbsp The formal faced cohue        &nbsp Will then no more upbraid With smiting smiles and whisperings two        &nbsp Who have thrown less loves in shade.        &nbsp We shall no more evade        &nbsp The searching light of the sun, Our game of passion will be played,        &nbsp       &nbsp Our dreaming done.        &nbsp We shall not go in stealth        &nbsp To rendezvous unknown, But friends will ask me of your health,        &nbsp And you about my own.        &nbsp When we abide alone,        &nbsp No leapings each to each, But syllables in frigid tone        &nbsp       &nbsp Of household speech.        &nbsp When down to dust we glide        &nbsp Men will not say askance, As now: "How all the country side        &nbsp Rings with their mad romance!"        &nbsp But as they graveward glance        &nbsp Remark: "In them we lose A worthy pair, who helped advance        &nbsp       &nbsp Sound parish views."