’You love not me,
  And love alone can lend you loyalty
  —­I know and knew it.  But, unto the store
  Of human deeds divine in all but name,
  Was it not worth a little hour or more
  To add yet this:  Once you, a woman, came
  To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
      You love not me?’

On such a seeming fragment of personal experience lies the visible endorsement of the universe.  The hopes not of a lover but of humanity are crushed beneath its rhythm.  The ruthlessness of the event is intensified in the motion of the poem till one can hear the even pad of destiny, and a moment comes when to a sense made eager by the strain of intense attention it seems to have been written by the destiny it records.

What is the secret of poetic power like this?  We do not look for it in technique, though the technique of this poem is masterly.  But the technique of ‘as the hope-hour stroked its sum’ is of such a kind that we know as we read that it proceeds from a sheer compulsive force.  For a moment it startles; a moment more and the echo of those very words is reverberant with accumulated purpose.  They are pitiless as the poem; the sign of an ultimate obedience is upon them.  Whence came the power that compelled it?  Can the source be defined or indicated?  We believe it can be indicated, though not defined.  We can show where to look for the mystery, that in spite of our regard remains a mystery still.  We are persuaded that almost on the instant that it was felt the original emotion of the poem was endorsed Perhaps it came to the poet as the pain of a particular and personal experience; but in a little or a long while—­creative time is not measured by days or years—­it became, for him, a part of the texture of the general life.  It became a manifestation of life, almost, nay wholly, in the sacramental sense, a veritable epiphany.  The manifold and inexhaustible quality of life was focused into a single revelation.  A critic’s words do not lend themselves to the necessary precision.  We should need to write with exactly the same power as Mr Hardy when he wrote ’the hope-hour stroked its sum,’ to make our meaning likewise inevitable.  The word ‘revelation’ is fertile in false suggestion; the creative act of power which we seek to elucidate is an act of plenary apprehension, by which one manifestation, one form of life, one experience is seen in its rigorous relation to all other and to all possible manifestations, forms, and experiences.  It is, we believe, the act which Mr Hardy himself has tried to formulate in the phrase which is the title of one of his books of poems—­Moments of Vision.