Thomas Hardy — Without not within her

It was what you bore with you, Woman,        &nbsp Not inly were, That throned you from all else human,        &nbsp However fair! It was that strange freshness you carried        &nbsp Into a soul Whereon no thought of yours tarried        &nbsp Two moments at all. And out from his spirit flew death,        &nbsp And bale, and ban, Like the corn-chaff under the breath        &nbsp Of the winnowing-fan.