by Thomas Hardy

I MARKED her ruined hues, Her custom-straitened views, And asked, "Can there indwell My Amabel?" I looked upon her gown, Once rose, now earthen brown; The change was like the knell Of Amabel. Her step's mechanic ways Had lost the life of May's; Her laugh, once sweet in swell, Spoilt Amabel. I mused: "Who sings the strain I sang ere warmth did wane? Who thinks its numbers spell His Amabel?"-- Knowing that, though Love cease, Love's race shows undecrease; All find in dorp or dell An Amabel. --I felt that I could creep To some housetop, and weep, That Time the tyrant fell Ruled Amabel! I said (the while I sighed That love like ours had died), "Fond things I'll no more tell To Amabel, "But leave her to her fate, And fling across the gate, 'Till the Last Trump, farewell, O Amabel!'"