Thomas Hardy — The Farm-Womans Winter

I If seasons all were summers,        &nbsp And leaves would never fall, And hopping casement-comers        &nbsp Were foodless not at all, And fragile folk might be here        &nbsp That white winds bid depart; Then one I used to see here        &nbsp Would warm my wasted heart! II One frail, who, bravely tilling        &nbsp Long hours in gripping gusts, Was mastered by their chilling,        &nbsp And now his ploughshare rusts. So savage winter catches        &nbsp The breath of limber things, And what I love he snatches,        &nbsp And what I love not, brings.