Mist forming

As I drive into the village towards the church with a mist descending, I often think of one of my favourite Thomas Hardy poems.  However, I will not indulge in its melancholic poignancy today.

The Voice.  

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me, 
Saying that now you are not as you were 
When you had changed from the one who was all to me, 
But as at first, when our day was fair. 

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, 
Standing as when I drew near to the town 
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then, 
Even to the original air-blue gown! 

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness 
Travelling across the wet mead to me here, 
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness, 
Heard no more again far or near? 

Thus I; faltering forward, 
Leaves around me falling, 
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward, 
And the woman calling.