by Thomas Hardy
Well, to see this sight I have fared these miles,
And her firelight smiles from her window there,
Whom he left his mother to cherish with tender care!
It is enough. I’ll turn and go;
Yes, nettles grow where lone lies he,
Who spurned me for seeing what he could not see.
IN A WAITING-ROOM
On a morning sick as the day of doom
With the drizzling gray
Of an English May,
There were few in the railway waiting-room.
About its walls were framed and varnished
Pictures of liners, fly-blown, tarnished.
The table bore a Testament
For travellers’ reading, if suchwise bent.
I read it on and on,
And, thronging the Gospel of Saint John,
Were figures — additions, multiplications -
By some one scrawled, with sundry emendations;
Not scoffingly designed,
But with an absent mind, -
Plainly a bagman’s counts of cost,
What he had profited, what lost;
And whilst I wondered if there could have been
Any particle of a soul
In that poor man at all,
To cypher rates of wage
Upon that printed page,
There joined in the charmless scene
And stood over me and the scribbled book
(To lend the hour’s mean hue
A smear of tragedy too)
A soldier and wife, with haggard look
Subdued to stone by strong endeavour;
And then I heard
From a casual word
They were parting as they believed for ever.
But next there came
Like the eastern flame
Of some high altar, children — a pair -
Who laughed at the fly-blown pictures there.
“Here are the lovely ships that we,
Mother, are by and by going to see!
When we get there it’s ‘most sure to be fine,
And the band will play, and the sun will shine!”
It rained on the skylight with a din
As we waited and still no train came in;
But the words of the child in the squalid room
Had spread a glory through the gloom.
THE CLOCK-WINDER
It is dark as a cave,
Or a vault in the nave
When the iron door
Is closed, and the floor
Of the church relaid
With trowel and spade.
But the parish-clerk
Cares not for the dark
As he winds in the tower
At a regular hour
The rheumatic clock,
Whose dilatory knock
You can hear when praying
At the day’s decaying,
Or at any lone while
From a pew in the aisle.
Up, up from the ground
Around and around
In the turret stair
He clambers, to where
The wheelwork is,
With its tick, click, whizz,
Reposefully measuring
Each day to its end
That mortal men spend
In sorrowing and pleasuring
Nightly thus does he climb
To the trackway of Time.
Him I followed one night
To this place without light,
And, ere I spoke, heard
Him say, word by word,
At the end of his winding,
The darkness unminding:-
“So I wipe out one more,
My Dear, of the sore
Sad days that still be,
Like a drying Dead Sea,
Between you and me!”
Who she was no man knew:
He had long borne him blind
To all womankind;
And was ever one who
Kept his past out of view.
OLD EXCURSIONS
“What’s the good of going to Ridgeway,
Cerne, or Sydling Mill,
Or to Yell’ham Hill,
Blithely bearing Casterbridge-way
As we used to do?
She will no more climb up there,
Or be visible anywhere
In those haunts we knew.”
But to-night, while walking weary,
Near me seemed her shade,
Come as ‘twere to upbraid
This my mood in deeming dreary
Scenes that used to please;
And, if she did come to me,
Still solicitous, there may be
Good in going to these.
So, I’ll care to roam to Ridgeway,
Cerne, or Sydling Mill,
Or to Yell’ham Hill,
Blithely bearing Casterbridge-way
As we used to do,
Since her phasm may flit out there,
And may greet me anywhere
In those haunts we knew.
April 1913.
THE MASKED FACE
I found me in a great surging space,
At either end a door,
And I said: “What is this giddying place,
With no firm-fixed floor,
That I knew not of before?”
”It is Life,” said a mask-clad face.
I asked: “But how do I come here,
Who never wished to come;
Can the light and air be made more clear,
The floor more quietsome,
And the doors set wide? They numb
Fast-locked, and fill with fear.”
The mask put on a bleak smile then,
And said, “O vassal-wight,
There once complained a goosequill pen
To the scribe of the Infinite
Of the words it had to write
Because they were past its ken.”
IN A WHISPERING GALLERY
That whisper takes the voice
Of a Spirit’s compassionings
Close, but invisible,
And throws me under a spell
At the kindling vision it brings;
And for a moment I rejoice,
And believe in transcendent things
That would mould from this muddy earth
A spot for the splendid birth
Of everlasting lives,
Whereto no night arrives;
And this gaunt gray gallery
A tabernacle of worth
On this drab-aired afternoon,
When you can barely see
Across its hazed lacune
If opposite aught there be
Of fleshed humanity
Wherewith I may commune;
Or if the voice so near
Be a soul’s voice floating here.
THE SOMETHING THAT SAVED HIM
It was when
Whirls of thick waters laved me
Again and again,
That something arose and saved me;
Yea, it was then.
In that day
Unseeing the azure went I
On my way,
And to white winter bent I,
Knowing no May.
Reft of renown,
Under the night clouds beating
Up and down,
In my needfulness greeting
Cit and clown.
Long there had been
Much of a murky colour
In the scene,
Dull prospects meeting duller;
Nought between.
Last, there loomed
A closing-in blind alley,
Though there boomed
A feeble summons to rally
Where it gloomed.
The clock rang;
The hour brought a hand to deliver;
I upsprang,
And looked back at den, ditch and river
,
And sang.
THE ENEMY’S PORTRAIT
He saw the portrait of his enemy, offered
At auction in a street he journeyed nigh,
That enemy, now late dead, who in his life-time
Had injured deeply him the passer-by.
“To get that picture, pleased be God, I’ll try,
And utterly destroy it; and no more
Shall be inflicted on man’s mortal eye
A countenance so sinister and sore!”
And so he bought the painting. Driving homeward,
“The frame will come in useful,” he declared,
“The rest is fuel.” On his arrival, weary,
Asked what he bore with him, and how he fared,
He said he had bid for a picture, though he cared
For the frame only: on the morrow he
Would burn the canvas, which could well be spared,
Seeing that it portrayed his enemy.
Next day some other duty found him busy;
The foe was laid his face against the wall;
But on the next he set himself to loosen
The straining-strips. And then a casual call
Prevented his proceeding therewithal;
And thus the picture waited, day by day,
Its owner’s pleasure, like a wretched thrall,
Until a month and more had slipped away.
And then upon a morn he found it shifted,
Hung in a corner by a servitor.
“Why did you take on you to hang that picture?
You know it was the frame I bought it for.”
“It stood in the way of every visitor,
And I just hitched it there.” — ”Well, it must go:
I don’t commemorate men whom I abhor.
Remind me ‘tis to do. The frame I’ll stow.”
But things become forgotten. In the shadow
Of the dark corner hung it by its string,
And there it stayed — once noticed by its owner,
Who said, “Ah me — I must destroy that thing!”
But when he died, there, none remembering,
It hung, till moved to prominence, as one sees;
And comers pause and say, examining,
“I thought they were the bitterest enemies?”
IMAGININGS
She saw herself a lady
With fifty frocks in wear,
And rolling wheels, and rooms the best,
And faithful maidens’ care,
And open lawns and shady
For weathers warm or drear.
She found herself a striver,
All liberal gifts debarred,
With days of gloom, and movements stressed,
And early visions marred,
And got no man to wive her
But one whose lot was hard.
Yet in the moony night-time
She steals to stile and lea
During his heavy slumberous rest
When homecome wearily,
And dreams of some blest bright-time
She knows can never be.
ON THE DOORSTEP
The rain imprinted the step’s wet shine
With target-circles that quivered and crossed
As I was leaving this porch of mine;
When from within there swelled and paused
A song’s sweet note;
And back I turned, and thought,
”Here I’ll abide.”
The step shines wet beneath the rain,
Which prints its circles as heretofore;
I watch them from the porch again,
But no song-notes within the door
Now call to me
To shun the dripping lea
And forth I stride.
Jan. 1914.
SIGNS AND TOKENS
Said the red-cloaked crone
In a whispered moan:
“The dead man was limp
When laid in his chest;
Yea, limp; and why
But to signify
That the grave will crimp
Ere next year’s sun
Yet another one
Of those in that house -
It may be the best -
For its endless drowse!”
Said the brown-shawled dame
To confirm the same:
“And the slothful flies
On the rotting fruit
Have been seen to wear
While crawling there
Crape scarves, by eyes
That were quick and acute;
As did those that had pitched
On the cows by the pails,
And with flaps of their tails
Were far away switched.”
Said the third in plaid,
Each word being weighed:
“And trotting does
In the park, in the lane,
And just outside
The shuttered pane,
Have also been heard -
Quick feet as light
As the feet of a sprite -
And the wise mind knows
What things may betide
When such has occurred.”
Cried the black-craped fourth,
Cold faced as the north:
“O, though giving such
Some head-room, I smile
At your falterings
When noting those things
Round your domicile!
For what, what can touch
One whom, riven of all
That makes life gay,
No hints can appal
Of more takings away!”
PATHS OF FORMER TIME
No; no;
It must not be so:
They are the ways we do not go.
Still chew
The kine, and moo
In the meadows we used to wander through;
Still purl
The rivulets and curl
Towards the weirs with a musical swirl;
Haymakers
As in former years
Rake rolls into heaps that the pitchfork rears;
Wheels crack
On the turfy track
The waggon pursues with its toppling pack.
”Why then shun -
Since summer’s not done -
All this because of the lack of one?”
Had you been
Sharer of that scene
You would not ask while it bites in keen
Why it is so
We can no more go
By the summer paths we used to know!
1913.
THE CLOCK OF THE YEARS
“A spirit passed before my face; the hair of my flesh stood up.”
And the Spirit said,
“I can make the clock of the years go backward,
But am loth to stop it where you will.”
And I cried, “Agreed
To that. Proceed:
It’s better than dead!”
He answered, “Peace”;
And called her up — as last before me;
Then younger, younger she freshed, to the year
I first had known
Her woman-grown,
And I cried, “Cease! -
”Thus far is good -
It is enough — let her stay thus always!”
But alas for me. He shook his head:
No stop was there;
And she waned child-fair,
And to babyhood.
Still less in mien
To my great sorrow became she slowly,
And smalled till she was nought at all
In his checkless griff;
And it was as if
She had never been.
”Better,” I plained,
“She were dead as before! The memory of her
Had lived in me; but it cannot now!”
And coldly his voice:
”It was your choice
&nbs
p; To mar the ordained.”
1916.
AT THE PIANO
A woman was playing,
A man looking on;
And the mould of her face,
And her neck, and her hair,
Which the rays fell upon
Of the two candles there,
Sent him mentally straying
In some fancy-place
Where pain had no trace.
A cowled Apparition
Came pushing between;
And her notes seemed to sigh,
And the lights to burn pale,
As a spell numbed the scene.
But the maid saw no bale,
And the man no monition;
And Time laughed awry,
And the Phantom hid nigh.
THE SHADOW ON THE STONE
I went by the Druid stone
That broods in the garden white and lone,
And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows
That at some moments fall thereon
From the tree hard by with a rhythmic swing,
And they shaped in my imagining
To the shade that a well-known head and shoulders
Threw there when she was gardening.
I thought her behind my back,
Yea, her I long had learned to lack,
And I said: “I am sure you are standing behind me,
Though how do you get into this old track?”
And there was no sound but the fall of a leaf
As a sad response; and to keep down grief
I would not turn my head to discover
That there was nothing in my belief.
Yet I wanted to look and see
That nobody stood at the back of me;
But I thought once more: “Nay, I’ll not unvision
A shape which, somehow, there may be.”
So I went on softly from the glade,
And left her behind me throwing her shade,
As she were indeed an apparition -
My head unturned lest my dream should fade.