Her Father Thomas Hardy

I met her, as we had privily planned,
Where passing feet beat busily:
She whispered: "Father is at hand!
       &nbsp He wished to walk with me."

His presence as he joined us there
Banished our words of warmth away;
We felt, with cloudings of despair,
       &nbsp What Love must lose that day.

Her crimson lips remained unkissed,
Our fingers kept no tender hold,
His lack of feeling made the tryst
       &nbsp Embarrassed, stiff, and cold.

A cynic ghost then rose and said,
"But is his love for her so small
That, nigh to yours, it may be read
       &nbsp As of no worth at all?

"You love her for her pink and white;
But what when their fresh splendours close?
His love will last her in despite
       &nbsp Of Time, and wrack, and foes."