Как же это стихотворение соответствует моему вчерашнему настроению, когда мне снилась любовь...

Rain on the windows, creaking doors,
      With blasts that besom the green;
And I am here, and you are there,
     And a hundred miles between!

O were it but the weather, Dear,
     O were it but the miles
That summed up all our severance,
      There might be room for smiles.

But that thwart thing betwixt us twain,
      Which nothing cleaves or clears,
Is more than distance, Dear, or rain,
      And longer than the years!

Thomas Hardy, 1893