Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated)

by Thomas Hardy

  She seemed but a sample

  Of earth’s poor average kind,

  Lit up by no ample

  Enrichments of mien or mind.

  I covered my eyes

  As to cover the thought,

  And unrecognize

  What the morn had taught.

  O vision appalling

  When the one believed-in thing

  Is seen falling, falling,

  With all to which hope can cling.

  Off: it is not true;

  For it cannot be

  That the prize I drew

  Is a blank to me!

  WEYMOUTH, 1869.

  FOUR FOOTPRINTS

  Here are the tracks upon the sand

  Where stood last evening she and I -

  Pressed heart to heart and hand to hand;

  The morning sun has baked them dry.

  I kissed her wet face — wet with rain,

  For arid grief had burnt up tears,

  While reached us as in sleeping pain

  The distant gurgling of the weirs.

  “I have married him — yes; feel that ring;

  ‘Tis a week ago that he put it on . . .

  A dutiful daughter does this thing,

  And resignation succeeds anon!

  “But that I body and soul was yours

  Ere he’d possession, he’ll never know.

  He’s a confident man. ‘The husband scores,’

  He says, ‘in the long run’ . . . Now, Dear, go!”

  I went. And to-day I pass the spot;

  It is only a smart the more to endure;

  And she whom I held is as though she were not,

  For they have resumed their honeymoon tour.

  IN THE VAULTED WAY

  In the vaulted way, where the passage turned

  To the shadowy corner that none could see,

  You paused for our parting, — plaintively;

  Though overnight had come words that burned

  My fond frail happiness out of me.

  And then I kissed you, — despite my thought

  That our spell must end when reflection came

  On what you had deemed me, whose one long aim

  Had been to serve you; that what I sought

  Lay not in a heart that could breathe such blame.

  But yet I kissed you; whereon you again

  As of old kissed me. Why, why was it so?

  Do you cleave to me after that light-tongued blow?

  If you scorned me at eventide, how love then?

  The thing is dark, Dear. I do not know.

  IN THE MIND’S EYE

  That was once her casement,

  And the taper nigh,

  Shining from within there,

  Beckoned, “Here am I!”

  Now, as then, I see her

  Moving at the pane;

  Ah; ‘tis but her phantom

  Borne within my brain! -

  Foremost in my vision

  Everywhere goes she;

  Change dissolves the landscapes,

  She abides with me.

  Shape so sweet and shy, Dear,

  Who can say thee nay?

  Never once do I, Dear,

  Wish thy ghost away.

  THE END OF THE EPISODE

  Indulge no more may we

  In this sweet-bitter pastime:

  The love-light shines the last time

  Between you, Dear, and me.

  There shall remain no trace

  Of what so closely tied us,

  And blank as ere love eyed us

  Will be our meeting-place.

  The flowers and thymy air,

  Will they now miss our coming?

  The dumbles thin their humming

  To find we haunt not there?

  Though fervent was our vow,

  Though ruddily ran our pleasure,

  Bliss has fulfilled its measure,

  And sees its sentence now.

  Ache deep; but make no moans:

  Smile out; but stilly suffer:

  The paths of love are rougher

  Than thoroughfares of stones.

  THE SIGH

  Little head against my shoulder,

  Shy at first, then somewhat bolder,

  And up-eyed;

  Till she, with a timid quaver,

  Yielded to the kiss I gave her;

  But, she sighed.

  That there mingled with her feeling

  Some sad thought she was concealing

  It implied.

  - Not that she had ceased to love me,

  None on earth she set above me;

  But she sighed.

  She could not disguise a passion,

  Dread, or doubt, in weakest fashion

  If she tried:

  Nothing seemed to hold us sundered,

  Hearts were victors; so I wondered

  Why she sighed.

  Afterwards I knew her throughly,

  And she loved me staunchly, truly,

  Till she died;

  But she never made confession

  Why, at that first sweet concession,

  She had sighed.

  It was in our May, remember;

  And though now I near November,

  And abide

  Till my appointed change, unfretting,

  Sometimes I sit half regretting

  That she sighed.

  IN THE NIGHT SHE CAME

  I told her when I left one day

  That whatsoever weight of care

  Might strain our love, Time’s mere assault

  Would work no changes there.

  And in the night she came to me,

  Toothless, and wan, and old,

  With leaden concaves round her eyes,

  And wrinkles manifold.

  I tremblingly exclaimed to her,

  “O wherefore do you ghost me thus!

  I have said that dull defacing Time

  Will bring no dreads to us.”

  “And is that true of YOU?” she cried

  In voice of troubled tune.

  I faltered: “Well . . . I did not think

  You would test me quite so soon!”

  She vanished with a curious smile,

  Which told me, plainlier than by word,

  That my staunch pledge could scarce beguile

  The fear she had averred.

  Her doubts then wrought their shape in me,

  And when next day I paid

  My due caress, we seemed to be

  Divided by some shade.

  THE CONFORMERS

  Yes; we’ll wed, my little fay,

  And you shall write you mine,

  And in a villa chastely gray

  We’ll house, and sleep, and dine.

  But those night-screened, divine,

  Stolen trysts of heretofore,

  We of choice ecstasies and fine

  Shall know no more.

  The formal faced cohue

  Will then no more upbraid

  With smiting smiles and whisperings two

  Who have thrown less loves in shade.

  We shall no more evade

  The searching light of the sun,

  Our game of passion will be played,

  Our dreaming done.

  We shall not go in stealth

  To rendezvous unknown,

  But friends will ask me of your health,

  And you about my own.

  When we abide alone,

  No leapings each to each,

  But syllables in frigid tone

  Of household speech.

  When down to dust we glide

  Men will not say askance,

  As now: “How all the country side

  Rings with their mad romance!”

  But as they graveward glance

  Remark: “In them we lose

  A worthy pair, who helped advance

  Sound parish views.”

  THE DAWN AFTER THE DANCE
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  Here is your parents’ dwelling with its curtained windows telling

  Of no thought of us within it or of our arrival here;

  Their slumbers have been normal after one day more of formal

  Matrimonial commonplace and household life’s mechanic gear.

  I would be candid willingly, but dawn draws on so chillingly

  As to render further cheerlessness intolerable now,

  So I will not stand endeavouring to declare a day for severing,

  But will clasp you just as always — just the olden love avow.

  Through serene and surly weather we have walked the ways together,

  And this long night’s dance this year’s end eve now finishes the spell;

  Yet we dreamt us but beginning a sweet sempiternal spinning

  Of a cord we have spun to breaking — too intemperately, too well.

  Yes; last night we danced I know, Dear, as we did that year ago, Dear,

  When a new strange bond between our days was formed, and felt, and heard;

  Would that dancing were the worst thing from the latest to the first thing

  That the faded year can charge us with; but what avails a word!

  That which makes man’s love the lighter and the woman’s burn no brighter

  Came to pass with us inevitably while slipped the shortening year . . .

  And there stands your father’s dwelling with its blind bleak windows telling

  That the vows of man and maid are frail as filmy gossamere.

  WEYMOUTH, 1869.

  THE SUN ON THE LETTER

  I drew the letter out, while gleamed

  The sloping sun from under a roof

  Of cloud whose verge rose visibly.

  The burning ball flung rays that seemed

  Stretched like a warp without a woof

  Across the levels of the lea

  To where I stood, and where they beamed

  As brightly on the page of proof

  That she had shown her false to me

  As if it had shown her true — had teemed

  With passionate thought for my behoof

  Expressed with their own ardency!

  THE NIGHT OF THE DANCE

  The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn,

  And centres its gaze on me;

  The stars, like eyes in reverie,

  Their westering as for a while forborne,

  Quiz downward curiously.

  Old Robert draws the backbrand in,

  The green logs steam and spit;

  The half-awakened sparrows flit

  From the riddled thatch; and owls begin

  To whoo from the gable-slit.

  Yes; far and nigh things seem to know

  Sweet scenes are impending here;

  That all is prepared; that the hour is near

  For welcomes, fellowships, and flow

  Of sally, song, and cheer;

  That spigots are pulled and viols strung;

  That soon will arise the sound

  Of measures trod to tunes renowned;

  That She will return in Love’s low tongue

  My vows as we wheel around.

  MISCONCEPTION

  I busied myself to find a sure

  Snug hermitage

  That should preserve my Love secure

  From the world’s rage;

  Where no unseemly saturnals,

  Or strident traffic-roars,

  Or hum of intervolved cabals

  Should echo at her doors.

  I laboured that the diurnal spin

  Of vanities

  Should not contrive to suck her in

  By dark degrees,

  And cunningly operate to blur

  Sweet teachings I had begun;

  And then I went full-heart to her

  To expound the glad deeds done.

  She looked at me, and said thereto

  With a pitying smile,

  “And THIS is what has busied you

  So long a while?

  O poor exhausted one, I see

  You have worn you old and thin

  For naught! Those moils you fear for me

  I find most pleasure in!”

  THE VOICE OF THE THORN

  I

  When the thorn on the down

  Quivers naked and cold,

  And the mid-aged and old

  Pace the path there to town,

  In these words dry and drear

  It seems to them sighing:

  “O winter is trying

  To sojourners here!”

  II

  When it stands fully tressed

  On a hot summer day,

  And the ewes there astray

  Find its shade a sweet rest,

  By the breath of the breeze

  It inquires of each farer:

  “Who would not be sharer

  Of shadow with these?”

  III

  But by day or by night,

  And in winter or summer,

  Should I be the comer

  Along that lone height,

  In its voicing to me

  Only one speech is spoken:

  “Here once was nigh broken

  A heart, and by thee.”

  FROM HER IN THE COUNTRY

  I thought and thought of thy crass clanging town

  To folly, till convinced such dreams were ill,

  I held my heart in bond, and tethered down

  Fancy to where I was, by force of will.

  I said: How beautiful are these flowers, this wood,

  One little bud is far more sweet to me

  Than all man’s urban shows; and then I stood

  Urging new zest for bird, and bush, and tree;

  And strove to feel my nature brought it forth

  Of instinct, or no rural maid was I;

  But it was vain; for I could not see worth

  Enough around to charm a midge or fly,

  And mused again on city din and sin,

  Longing to madness I might move therein!

  16 W. P. V., 1866.

  HER CONFESSION

  As some bland soul, to whom a debtor says

  “I’ll now repay the amount I owe to you,”

  In inward gladness feigns forgetfulness

  That such a payment ever was his due

  (His long thought notwithstanding), so did I

  At our last meeting waive your proffered kiss

  With quick divergent talk of scenery nigh,

  By such suspension to enhance my bliss.

  And as his looks in consternation fall

  When, gathering that the debt is lightly deemed,

  The debtor makes as not to pay at all,

  So faltered I, when your intention seemed

  Converted by my false uneagerness

  To putting off for ever the caress.

  W. P. V., 1865-67.

  TO AN IMPERSONATOR OF ROSALIND

  Did he who drew her in the years ago -

  Till now conceived creator of her grace -

  With telescopic sight high natures know,

  Discern remote in Time’s untravelled space

  Your soft sweet mien, your gestures, as do we,

  And with a copyist’s hand but set them down,

  Glowing yet more to dream our ecstasy

  When his Original should be forthshown?

  For, kindled by that animated eye,

  Whereto all fairnesses about thee brim,

  And by thy tender tones, what wight can fly

  The wild conviction welling up in him

  That he at length beholds woo, parley, plead,

  The “very, very Rosalind” indeed!

  8 ADELPHI TERRACE, 21st April 1867.

  TO AN ACTRESS

  I read your name when you were strange to me,

  Where it stood blazoned bold with many more;

  I passed it vacantly, and did not see

  Any great glory in the shape it w
ore.

  O cruelty, the insight barred me then!

  Why did I not possess me with its sound,

  And in its cadence catch and catch again

  Your nature’s essence floating therearound?

  Could THAT man be this I, unknowing you,

  When now the knowing you is all of me,

  And the old world of then is now a new,

  And purpose no more what it used to be -

  A thing of formal journeywork, but due

  To springs that then were sealed up utterly?

  1867.

  THE MINUTE BEFORE MEETING

  The grey gaunt days dividing us in twain

  Seemed hopeless hills my strength must faint to climb,

  But they are gone; and now I would detain

  The few clock-beats that part us; rein back Time,

  And live in close expectance never closed

  In change for far expectance closed at last,

  So harshly has expectance been imposed

  On my long need while these slow blank months passed.

  And knowing that what is now about to be

  Will all HAVE BEEN in O, so short a space!

  I read beyond it my despondency

  When more dividing months shall take its place,

  Thereby denying to this hour of grace

  A full-up measure of felicity.

  1871.

  HE ABJURES LOVE

  At last I put off love,

  For twice ten years

  The daysman of my thought,

  And hope, and doing;

  Being ashamed thereof,

  And faint of fears

  And desolations, wrought

  In his pursuing,