Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces. Thomas Hardy

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      “My stick!” he says, and turns in the lane

      To the house just left, whence a vixen voice

      Comes out with the firelight through the pane,

      And he sees within that the girl of his choice

      Stands rating her mother with eyes aglare

      For something said while he was there.

      “At last I behold her soul undraped!”

      Thinks the man who had loved her more than himself;

      “My God – ’tis but narrowly I have escaped. —

      My precious porcelain proves it delf.”

      His face has reddened like one ashamed,

      And he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed.