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Thomas Hardy - At Castle Boterel
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As I drive to the junction of lane and highway,
  And the drizzle bedrenches the waggonette,
I look behind at the fading byway,
  And see on its slope, now glistening wet,
      Distinctly yet


Myself and a girlish form benighted
  In dry March weather. We climb the road
Beside a chaise. We had just alighted
  To ease the sturdy pony`s load
      When he sighed and slowed.


What we did as we climbed, and what we talked of
  Matters not much, nor to what it led, —
Something that life will not be balked of
  Without rude reason till hope is dead,
      And feeling fled.


It filled but a minute. But was there ever
  A time of such quality, since or before,
In that hill`s story? To one mind never,
  Though it has been climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore,
      By thousands more.


Primaeval rocks form the road`s steep border,
  And much have they faced there, first and last,
Of the transitory in Earth`s long order;
  But what they record in colour and cast
      Is — that we two passed.


And to me, though Time`s unflinching rigour,
  In mindless rote, has ruled from sight
The substance now, one phantom figure
  Remains on the slope, as when that night
      Saw us alight.


I look and see it there, shrinking, shrinking,
  I look back at it amid the rain
For the very last time; for my sand is sinking,
  And I shall traverse old love`s domain
      Never again.
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