Thomas Hardy - 1967 lyrics

In five-score summers! All new eyes, New minds, new modes, new fools, new wise; New woes to weep, new joys to prize; With nothing left of me and you In that live century's vivid view Beyond a pinch of dust or two; A century which, if not sublime, Will show, I doubt not, at its prime, A scope above this blinkered time. - Yet what to me how far above? For I would only ask thereof That thy worm should be my worm, Love!