
The Conformers Thomas Hardy
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  Yes; we'll wed, my little fay,
  And you shall write you mine,
And in a villa chastely gray
  We'll house, and sleep, and dine.
  But those night-screened, divine,
  Stolen trysts of heretofore,
We of choice ecstasies and fine
    Shall know no more.
  The formal faced cohue
  Will then no more upbraid
With smiting smiles and whisperings two
  Who have thrown less loves in shade.
  We shall no more evade
  The searching light of the sun,
Our game of passion will be played,
    Our dreaming done.
  We shall not go in stealth
  To rendezvous unknown,
But friends will ask me of your health,
  And you about my own.
  When we abide alone,
  No leapings each to each,
But syllables in frigid tone
    Of household speech.
  And you shall write you mine,
And in a villa chastely gray
  We'll house, and sleep, and dine.
  But those night-screened, divine,
  Stolen trysts of heretofore,
We of choice ecstasies and fine
    Shall know no more.
  The formal faced cohue
  Will then no more upbraid
With smiting smiles and whisperings two
  Who have thrown less loves in shade.
  We shall no more evade
  The searching light of the sun,
Our game of passion will be played,
    Our dreaming done.
  We shall not go in stealth
  To rendezvous unknown,
But friends will ask me of your health,
  And you about my own.
  When we abide alone,
  No leapings each to each,
But syllables in frigid tone
    Of household speech.
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