I look into my
glass,
And view my wasting
skin,
And say, "Would God it came to pass
My
heart had shrunk as
thin!"
For then, I, undistrest
By hearts grown cold to me,
Could lonely wait my endless rest
With equanimity.
But Time, to make me grieve,
Part steals, lets part abide;
And shakes this fragile frame at eve
With throbbings of noontide.
— Thomas Hardy