by Thomas Hardy You did not come, And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb. Yet less for loss of your dear presence there Than that I thus found lacking in your make That high compassion which can overbear Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum， You did not come. You love me not. And love alone can lend you loyalty: -I know and knew it. But, unto the store Of human deeds divine in all but name， Was it not worth a little hour or more ...