The Change Thomas Hardy

     Out of the past there rises a week -
        Who shall read the years O! -
     Out of the past there rises a week
        Enringed with a purple zone.
     Out of the past there rises a week
     When thoughts were strung too thick to speak,
And the magic of its lineaments remains with me alone.

     In that week there was heard a singing -
        Who shall spell the years, the years! -
     In that week there was heard a singing,
        And the white owl wondered why.
     In that week, yea, a voice was ringing,
     And forth from the casement were candles flinging
Radiance that fell on the deodar and lit up the path thereby.

     Could that song have a mocking note? -
        Who shall unroll the years O! -
     Could that song have a mocking note
        To the white owl's sense as it fell?
     Could that song have a mocking note
     As it trilled out warm from the singer's throat,
And who was the mocker and who the mocked when two felt all was well?

     In a tedious trampling crowd yet later -
        Who shall bare the years, the years! -
     In a tedious trampling crowd yet later,
        When silvery singings were dumb;
     In a crowd uncaring what time might fate her,
      Mid murks of night I stood to await her,
And the twanging of iron wheels gave out the signal that she was
come.