Four Songs to poems by Thomas Hardy

A bird [bills]1 the selfsame song,
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
  Long years ago.

A pleasing marvel is how
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
  Unchanged in a note!

-- But it's not the selfsame bird. --
No: perished to dust is he....
As also are those who heard
  That song with me. 

There was a singing woman
Came riding across the mead
At the time of the mild May weather,
Tameless, tireless;
This song she sung: "I am fair, I am young!"
And many turned to heed.

And the same singing woman
Sat crooning in her need
At the time of the winter weather;
Friendless, fireless,
She sang this song: "Life, thou'rt too long!"
And there was none to heed.

If grief come early
Joy comes late,
If joy come early
Grief will wait;
Aye, my dear and tender!

Wise ones joy them early
While the cheeks are red,
Banish grief till surly
Time has dulled their dread.

And joy being ours
Ere youth has flown,
The later hours
May find us gone;
Aye, my dear and tender!

That night, that night,
That song, that song!
Will such again be evened quite
Through lifetimes long?

No mirth was shown
To outer seers,
But mood to match has not been known
In modern years.

O eyes that smiled,
O lips that lured;
That such would last was one beguiled
To think ensured!

That night, that night,
That song, that song;
O drink to its recalled delight,
Its praise prolong!

O drink to its recalled delight,
Though tears may throng!