Thomas Hardy — The passer-by

He used to pass, well-trimmed and brushed,        &nbsp My window every day, And when I smiled on him he blushed, That youth, quite as a girl might; aye,        &nbsp In the shyest way. Thus often did he pass hereby,        &nbsp That youth of bounding gait, Until the one who blushed was I, And he became, as here I sate,        &nbsp My joy, my fate. And now he passes by no more,        &nbsp That youth I loved too true! I grieve should he, as here of yore, Pass elsewhere, seated in his view,        &nbsp Some maiden new! If such should be, alas for her!        &nbsp He’ll make her feel him dear, Become her daily comforter, Then tire him of her beauteous gear,        &nbsp And disappear!