A Love Song

I must set my heart to day, As fern will send forth scent of brine, To take up time in wavy strain— And through the quench pool’s dew entwine; My heart can still be thine thine thine!

So artless, please let close me pass— Rope-thickened spires will not hold trust, Yet as swift as clouds my love shall flee, For woods are bound to make a must— Where euu and she are thine thine thine!

• Thomas Hardy