The Lacking Sense Thomas Hardy

SCENE.—A sad-coloured landscape, Waddon Vale

I

"O Time, whence comes the Mother's moody look amid her labours,
    As of one who all unwittingly has wounded where she loves?
    Why weaves she not her world-webs to according lutes and tabors,
With nevermore this too remorseful air upon her face,
        As of angel fallen from grace?"

II

- "Her look is but her story: construe not its symbols keenly:
    In her wonderworks yea surely has she wounded where she loves.
    The sense of ills misdealt for blisses blanks the mien most
queenly,
Self-smitings kill self-joys; and everywhere beneath the sun
        Such deeds her hands have done."

III

- "And how explains thy Ancient Mind her crimes upon her creatures,
These fallings from her fair beginnings, woundings where she
loves,
    Into her would-be perfect motions, modes, effects, and features
Admitting cramps, black humours, wan decay, and baleful blights,
        Distress into delights?"