Read Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) Online
Authors: Thomas Hardy
1920 and 1926.
A QUESTION OF MARRIAGE
“I yield you my whole heart, Countess,” said he;
“Come, Dear, and be queen of my studio.”
“No, sculptor. You’re merely my friend,” said she:
“We dine our artists; but marry them — no.”
“Be it thus,” he replied. And his love, so strong,
He subdued as a stoic should. Anon
He wived some damsel who’d loved him long,
Of lineage noteless; and chiselled on.
And a score years passed. As a master-mind
The world made much of his marching fame,
And his wife’s little charms, with his own entwined,
Won day after day increased acclaim.
The countess-widow had closed with a mate
In rank and wealth of her own degree,
And they moved among the obscurely great
Of an order that had no novelty.
And oldening — neither with blame nor praise —
Their stately lives begot no stir,
And she saw that when death should efface her days
All men would abandon thought of her;
And said to herself full gloomily:
“Far better for me had it been to shine
The wench of a genius such as he
Than rust as the wife of a spouse like mine!”
THE LETTER’S TRIUMPH
(A FANCY)
Yes: I perceive it’s to your Love
You are bent on sending me. That this is so
Your words and phrases prove!
And now I am folded, and start to go,
Where you, my writer, have no leave to come:
My entry none will know!
And I shall catch her eye, and dumb
She’ll keep, should my unnoised arrival be
Hoped for, or troublesome.
My face she’ll notice readily:
And, whether she care to meet you, or care not,
She will perforce meet me;
Take me to closet or garden-plot
And, blushing or pouting, bend her eyes quite near,
Moved much, or never a jot.
And while you wait in hope and fear,
Far from her cheeks and lips, snug I shall stay
In close communion there,
And hear her heart-beats, things she may say,
As near her naked fingers, sleeve, or glove
I lie — ha-ha! — all day.
A FORGOTTEN MINIATURE
There you are in the dark,
Deep in a box
Nobody ever unlocks,
Or even turns to mark;
— Out of mind stark.
Yet there you have not been worsed
Like your sitter
By Time, the Fair’s hard-hitter;
Your beauties, undispersed,
Glow as at first.
Shut in your case for years,
Never an eye
Of the many passing nigh,
Fixed on their own affairs,
Thinks what it nears!
— While you have lain in gloom,
A form forgot,
Your reign remembered not,
Much life has come to bloom
Within this room.
Yea, in Time’s cyclic sweep
Unrest has ranged:
Women and men have changed:
Some you knew slumber deep;
Some wait for sleep.
WHISPERED AT THE CHURCH-OPENING
In the bran-new pulpit the bishop stands,
And gives out his text, as his gaze expands
To the people, the aisles, the roof’s new frame,
And the arches, and ashlar with coloured bands.
“Why — he’s the man,” says one, “who came
To preach in my boyhood — a fashion then —
In a series of sermons to working-men
On week-day evenings, a novelty
Which brought better folk to hear and see.
They preached each one each week, by request:
Some were eloquent speakers, among the best
Of the lot being this, as all confessed.”
“I remember now. And reflection brings
Back one in especial, sincerest of all;
Whose words, though unpicked, gave the essence of things; —
And where is he now, whom I well recall?”
“Oh, he’d no touches of tactic skill:
His mind ran on charity and good will:
He’s but as he was, a vicar still.”
IN WEATHERBURY STOCKS
(
1850)
“I sit here in these stocks,
And Saint-Mary’s moans eleven;
The sky is dark and cold:
I would I were in heaven!
“What footsteps do I hear?
Ah, you do not forget,
My Sophy! O, my dear,
We may be happy yet!
“But — . Mother, is’t your voice?
You who have come to me? —
It did not cross my thought:
I was thinking it was she.”
“She! Foolish simple son!
She says: ‘I’ve finished quite
With him or any one
Put in the stocks to-night.’
“She’s gone to Blooms-End dance,
And will not come back yet:
Her new man sees his chance,
And is teaching her to forget.
“Jim, think no other woman
To such a fellow is true
But the mother you have grieved so,
Or cares for one like you!”
A PLACID MAN’S EPITAPH
As for my life, I’ve led it
With fair content and credit:
It said: “Take this.” I took it.
Said: “Leave.” And I forsook it.
If I had done without it
None would have cared about it,
Or said: “One has refused it
Who might have meetly used it.”
1925.
THE NEW BOOTS
“They are his new boots,” she pursued;
“They have not been worn at all:
They stay there hung on the wall,
And are getting as stiff as wood.
He bought them for the wet weather,
And they are of waterproof leather.”
“Why does her husband,” said I,
“Never wear those boots bought new?”
To a neighbour of hers I knew;
Who answered: “Ah, those boots. Aye,
He bought them to wear whenever
It rained. But there they hang ever.
“‘Yes,’ he laughed, as he hung them up,
‘I’ve got them at last — a pair
I can walk in anywhere
Through rain and slush and slop.
For many a year I’ve been haunted
By thoughts of how much they were wanted.’
“And she’s not touched them or tried
To remove them. . . . Anyhow,
As you see them hanging now
They have hung ever since he died
The day after gaily declaring:
‘Ha-ha! Now for wet wayfaring.
They’re just the chaps for my wearing!’”
THE MUSING MAIDEN
“Why so often, silent one,
Do you steal away alone?”
Starting, half she turned her head,
And guiltily she said: —
“When the vane points to his far town
I go upon the hog-backed down,
And think the breeze that stroked his lip
Over my own may slip.
“When he walks at close of day
I ramble on the white highway,
And think it reaches to his feet:
A meditation sweet!
“When coasters hence to London sail
I watch their puffed wings waning pale;
His window opens near the quay;
Their coming he can see.
“I go to meet the moon at night;
To mark the moon was our delight;
Up there our eyesights touch at will
If such he practise still.”
W.P.V.
October
1866 (recopied).
LORNA THE SECOND
Lorna! Yes, you are sweet,
But you are not your mother,
Lorna the First, frank, feat,
Never such another! —
Love of her could smother
Griefs by day or night;
Nor could any other,
Lorna, dear and bright,
Ever so well adorn a
Mansion, coach, or cot,
Or so make men scorn a
Rival in their sight;
Even you could not!
Hence I have to mourn a
Loss ere you were born; a Lorna!
A DAUGHTER RETURNS
I like not that dainty-cut raiment, those earrings of pearl,
I like not the light in that eye;
I like not the note of that voice. Never so was the girl
Who a year ago bade me good-bye!
Hadst but come bare and moneyless, worn in the vamp, weather-gray,
But innocent still as before,
How warmly I’d lodged thee! But sport thy new gains far away;
I pray thee now — come here no more!
And yet I’ll not try to blot out every memory of thee;
I’ll think of thee — yes, now and then:
One who’s watched thee since Time called thee out o’ thy mother and me
Must
think of thee; aye, I know when! . . .
When the cold sneer of dawn follows night-shadows black as a hearse,
And the rain filters down the fruit tree,
And the tempest mouths into the flue-top a word like a curse,
Then, then I shall think, think of thee!
December 17, 1901.
THE THIRD KISSING-GATE
She foots it forward down the town,
Then leaves the lamps behind,
And trots along the eastern road
Where elms stand double-lined.
She clacks the first dim kissing-gate
Beneath the storm-strained trees,
And passes to the second mead
That fringes Mellstock Leaze.
She swings the second kissing-gate
Next the gray garden-wall,
And sees the third mead stretching down
Towards the waterfall.
And now the third-placed kissing-gate
Her silent shadow nears,
And touches with; when suddenly
Her person disappears.
What chanced by that third kissing-gate
When the hushed mead grew dun?
Lo — two dark figures clasped and closed
As if they were but one.
DRINKING SONG
Once on a time when thought began
Lived Thales: he
Was said to see
Vast truths that mortals seldom can;
It seems without
A moment’s doubt
That everything was made for man.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress
That thoughts so great should now be less!
Earth mid the sky stood firm and flat,
He held, till came
A sage by name
Copernicus, and righted that.
We trod, he told,
A globe that rolled
Around a sun it warmed it at.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress;
‘Tis only one great thought the less!
But still we held, as Time flew by
And wit increased,
Ours was, at least,
The only world whose rank was high:
Till rumours flew
From folk who knew
Of globes galore about the sky.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: fell no distress;
‘Tis only one great thought the less!
And that this earth, our one estate,
Was no prime ball,
The best of all,
But common, mean; indeed, tenth-rate:
And men, so proud,
A feeble crowd,
Unworthy any special fate.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress;
‘Tis only one great thought the less!
Then rose one Hume, who could not see,
If earth were such,
Required were much
To prove no miracles could be:
“Better believe
The eyes deceive
Than that God’s clockwork jolts,” said he.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress;
‘Tis only one great thought the less!
Next this strange message Darwin brings,
(Though saying his say
In a quiet way);
We all are one with creeping things;
And apes and men
Blood-brethren,
And likewise reptile forms with stings.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress;
‘Tis only one great thought the less!
And when this philosoph had done
Came Doctor Cheyne:
Speaking plain he
Proved no virgin bore a son.
“Such tale, indeed,
Helps not our creed,”
He said. “A tale long known to none.”
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress;
‘Tis only one great thought the less!
And now comes Einstein with a notion —
Not yet quite clear
To many here —
That’s there’s no time, no space, no motion,
Nor rathe nor late,
Nor square nor straight,
But just a sort of bending-ocean.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress;
‘Tis only one great thought the less!
So here we are, in piteous case:
Like butterflies
Of many dyes
Upon an Alpine glacier’s face:
To fly and cower
In some warm bower
Our chief concern in such a place.
C
horus.
Fill full your cups: feel no distress
At all our great thoughts shrinking less:
We’ll do a good deed nevertheless!
THE TARRYING BRIDEGROOM
Wildly bound the bells this morning
For the glad solemnity;
People are adorning
Chancel and canopy;
But amid the peal a warning
Under-echo calls to me.
Where the lane divides the pasture
Long I watch each bend and stone,
Why not now as last year,
When he sought me — lone?
Come, O come, and see, and cast here
Light and love on one your own!
How it used to draw him to me,
When I piped a pretty tune;
Yes, when first he knew me
In my pink shalloon:
Little I guessed ‘twould so undo me
Lacking him this summer noon!
THE DESTINED PAIR
Two beings were drifting
Each one to the other:
No moment’s veil-lifting
Or hint from another
Led either to weet
That the tracks of their feet
Were arcs that would meet.
One moved in a city,
And one in a village,
Where many a ditty
He tongued when at tillage
On dreams of a dim
Figure fancy would limn
That was viewless to him.
Would Fate have been kinder
To keep night between them? —
Had he failed to find her
And time never seen them
Unite; so that, caught
In no burning love-thought,
She had faded unsought?