I <br /> <br />The curtains now are drawn, <br />And the spindrift strikes the glass, <br />Blown up the jagged pass <br />By the surly salt sou'-west, <br />And the sneering glare is gone <br />Behind the yonder crest, <br />While she sings to me: <br />'O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine, <br />And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine, <br />And death may come, but loving is divine.' <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />I stand here in the rain, <br />With its smite upon her stone, <br />And the grasses that have grown <br />Over women, children, men, <br />And their texts that 'Life is vain'; <br />But I hear the notes as when <br />Once she sang to me: <br />'O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine, <br />And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine, <br />And death may come, but loving is divine.' <br /> <br /> <br />1913<br /><br />Thomas Hardy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-curtains-now-are-drawn/
