The Revisitation Thomas Hardy

       &nbsp As I lay awake at night-time
In an ancient country barrack known to ancient cannoneers,
And recalled the hopes that heralded each seeming brave and bright time
       &nbsp Of my primal purple years,

       &nbsp Much it haunted me that, nigh there,
I had borne my bitterest loss—when One who went, came not again;
In a joyless hour of discord, in a joyless-hued July there -
       &nbsp A July just such as then.

       &nbsp And as thus I brooded longer,
With my faint eyes on the feeble square of wan-lit window frame,
A quick conviction sprung within me, grew, and grew yet stronger,
       &nbsp That the month-night was the same,

       &nbsp Too, as that which saw her leave me
On the rugged ridge of Waterstone, the peewits plaining round;
And a lapsing twenty years had ruled that—as it were to grieve me -
       &nbsp I should near the once-loved ground.

       &nbsp Though but now a war-worn stranger
Chance had quartered here, I rose up and descended to the yard.
All was soundless, save the troopers' horses tossing at the manger,
       &nbsp And the sentry keeping guard.

       &nbsp Through the gateway I betook me
Down the High Street and beyond the lamps, across the battered bridge,
Till the country darkness clasped me and the friendly shine forsook me,
       &nbsp And I bore towards the Ridge,