Thomas Hardy — The Pine Planters

I We work here together          In blast and breeze; He fills the earth in,          I hold the trees. He does not notice          That what I do Keeps me from moving          And chills me through. He has seen one fairer          I feel by his eye, Which skims me as though          I were not by. And since she passed here          He scarce has known But that the woodland          Holds him alone. I have worked here with him          Since morning shine, He busy with his thoughts          And I with mine. I have helped him so many,          So many days, But never win any          Small word of praise! Shall I not sigh to him          That I work on Glad to be nigh to him          Though hope is gone? Nay, though he never          Knew love like mine, I'll bear it ever          And make no sign! II From the bundle at hand here          I take each tree, And set it to stand, here          Always to be; When, in a second,          As if from fear Of Life unreckoned          Beginning here, It starts a sighing          Through day and night, Though while there lying          'Twas voiceless quite. It will sigh in the morning,          Will sigh at noon, At the winter's warning,          In wafts of June; Grieving that never          Kind Fate decreed It should for ever          Remain a seed, And shun the welter          Of things without, Unneeding shelter          From storm and drought. Thus, all unknowing          For whom or what We set it growing          In this bleak spot, It still will grieve here          Throughout its time, Unable to leave here,          Or change its clime; Or tell the story          Of us to-day When, halt and hoary,          We pass away.