To A Lady

Offended by a Book of the Writer's

NOW that my page upcloses, doomed, maybe,
Never to press thy cosy cushions more,
Or wake thy ready Yeas as heretofore,
Or stir thy gentle vows of faith in me:

Knowing thy natural receptivity,
I figure that, as flambeaux banish eve,
My sombre image, warped by insidious heave
Of those less forthright, must lose place in thee.

So be it. I have borne such. Let thy dreams
Of me and mine diminish day by day,
And yield their space to shine of smugger things;
Till I shape to thee but in fitful gleams,
And then in far and feeble visitings,
And then surcease. Truth will be truth alway.

by Thomas Hardy

Comments (2)

But was it worth at all? To live and feel, and enjoy each moment of Life or to suffer... This life, yet was it still a life or a living death, or perhaps, a perishing life?
The writer has accepted his fate: this lady has lost her faith in him, but he reckons he has writen the truth, and is prepared to pay the price ah sadness is apon him but he soldiers on.