Thomas Hardy — Two Serenades

I - On Christmas Eve Late on Christmas Eve, in the street alone, Outside a house, on the pavement-stone, I sang to her, as we’d sung together On former eves ere I felt her tether. - Above the door of green by me Was she, her casement seen by me;        &nbsp But she would not heed        &nbsp What I melodied        &nbsp In my soul’s sore need -        &nbsp She would not heed. Cassiopeia overhead, And the Seven of the Wain, heard what I said As I bent me there, and voiced, and fingered Upon the strings. . . . Long, long I lingered: Only the curtains hid from her One whom caprice had bid from her;        &nbsp But she did not come,        &nbsp And my heart grew numb        &nbsp And dull my strum;        &nbsp She did not come. II - A Year Later I skimmed the strings; I sang quite low; I hoped she would not come or know That the house next door was the one now dittied, Not hers, as when I had played unpitied; - Next door, where dwelt a heart fresh stirred, My new Love, of good will to me, Unlike my old Love chill to me, Who had not cared for my notes when heard:        &nbsp Yet that old Love came        &nbsp To the other’s name        &nbsp As hers were the claim;        &nbsp Yea, the old Love came My viol sank mute, my tongue stood still, I tried to sing on, but vain my will: I prayed she would guess of the later, and leave me; She stayed, as though, were she slain by the smart, She would bear love’s burn for a newer heart. The tense-drawn moment wrought to bereave me Of voice, and I turned in a dumb despair At her finding I’d come to another there.        &nbsp Sick I withdrew        &nbsp At love’s grim hue        &nbsp Ere my last Love knew;        &nbsp Sick I withdrew.