Offended by a Book of the Writer's <br /> <br /> NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe, <br /> Never to press thy cosy cushions more, <br /> Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore, <br /> Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me: <br /> <br /> Knowing thy natural receptivity, <br /> I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve, <br /> My sombre image, warped by insidious heave <br /> Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee. <br /> <br /> So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams <br /> Of me and mine diminish day by day, <br /> And yield their space to shine of smugger things; <br /> Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams, <br /> And then in far and feeble visitings, <br /> And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway.<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-a-lady-3/
