The Curtains now are Drawn Thomas Hardy

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I
           The curtains now are drawn,
           And the spindrift strikes the glass,
           Blown up the jagged pass
           By the surly salt sou’-west,
           And the sneering glare is gone
           Behind the yonder crest,
                      While she sings to me:
“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,
And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,
And death may come, but loving is divine.”
II
           I stand here in the rain,
           With its smite upon her stone,
           And the grasses that have grown
           Over women, children, men,
           And their texts that “Life is vain”;
           But I hear the notes as when
                      Once she sang to me:
“O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,
And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,
And death may come, but loving is divine.”