The Puzzled Game-Birds Triolet by Thomas Hardy Lyrics

They are not those who used to feed us
When we were young—they cannot be -
These shapes that now bereave and bleed us?
They are not those who used to feed us, -
For would they not fair terms concede us?
- If hearts can house such treachery
They are not those who used to feed us
When we were young—they cannot be!