Thomas Hardy — The Division

Rain on the windows, creaking doors,        &nbsp With blasts that besom the green, And I am here, and you are there,        &nbsp And a hundred miles between! O were it but the weather, Dear,        &nbsp O were it but the miles That summed up all our severance,        &nbsp There might be room for smiles. But that thwart thing betwixt us twain,        &nbsp Which nothing cleaves or clears, Is more than distance, Dear, or rain,        &nbsp And longer than the years!