When Thomas Hardy writes about love, things are never straightforward. The crunch here is not, as so often, death and remorse, but a somewhat deflating acknowledgment of emotional reality!

         THE LAST LEAF

‘The leaves throng thick above: -

Well, I’ll come back, dear Love,

When they all are down!’

~

She watched that August tree,

(None now scorned summer as she),

Till it broidered it brown.

~

And then October came blowing,

And the leaves showed signs they were going,

And she saw up through them.

~

O how she counted them then!

- November left her but ten,

And started to strew them.

~

‘Ah, when they all are gone,

And the skeleton-time comes on,

Whom shall I see!’

~

- When the fifteenth spread its sky

That month, her upturned eye

Could count but three.

~

And at the close of the week

A flush flapped over her cheek:

The last one fell.

~

But – he did not come. And, at length,

Her hope of him lost all strength,

And it was as a knell. . . .

~

When he did come again,

Years later, a husband then,

Heavy somewhat,

~

With a smile she reminded him:

And he cried: ‘Ah, that vow of our whim! –

Which I forgot,

~

‘As one does! –And was that the tree?

So it was! – Dear me, dear me:

Yes: I forgot.’