Her Love-Birds Thomas Hardy

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When I looked up at my love-birds
        That Sunday afternoon,
        There was in their tiny tune
A dying fetch like broken words,
When I looked up at my love-birds
        That Sunday afternoon.

When he, too, scanned the love-birds
        On entering there that day,
        'Twas as if he had nought to say
Of his long journey citywards,
When he, too, scanned the love-birds,
        On entering there that day.

And billed and billed the love-birds,
        As 'twere in fond despair
        At the stress of silence where
Had once been tones in tenor thirds,
And billed and billed the love-birds
        As 'twere in fond despair.

O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,
        And smote like death on me,
        As I learnt what was to be,
And knew my life was broke in sherds!
O, his speech that chilled the love-birds,
        And smote like death on me!