Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (993 page)

The frost is fiercer
Than then to-day,
As I pass the place
Of her once dismay,
But the greenhouse stands
Warm, tight, and gay,

While she who grieved
At the sad lot
Of her pretty plants —
Cold, iced, forgot —
Herself is colder,
And knows it not.

TWO LIPS

I kissed them in fancy as I came
Away in the morning glow:
I kissed them through the glass of her picture-frame:
She did not know.

I kissed them in love, in troth, in laughter,
When she knew all; long so!
That I should kiss them in a shroud thereafter
She did not know.

NO BUYERS

A STREET SCENE

A load of brushes and baskets and cradles and chairs
Labours along the street in the rain:
With it a man, a woman, a pony with whiteybrown hairs. —
The man foots in front of the horse with a shambling sway
At a slower tread than a funeral train,
While to a dirge-like tune he chants his wares,
Swinging a Turk’s-head brush (in a drum-major’s way
When the bandsmen march and play).

A yard from the back of the man is the whiteybrown pony’s nose:
He mirrors his master in every item of pace and pose:
He stops when the man stops, without being told,
And seems to be eased by a pause; too plainly he’s old,
Indeed, not strength enough shows
To steer the disjointed waggon straight,
Which wriggles left and right in a rambling line,
Deflected thus by its own warp and weight,
And pushing the pony with it in each incline.

The woman walks on the pavement verge,
Parallel to the man:
She wears an apron white and wide in span,
And carries a like Turk’s-head, but more in nursing-wise:

Now and then she joins in his dirge,
But as if her thoughts were on distant things.
The rain clams her apron till it clings. —
So, step by step, they move with their merchandize,
And nobody buys.

ONE WHO MARRIED ABOVE HIM

“‘Tis you, I think? Back from your week’s work, Steve?”
“It is I. Back from work this Christmas Eve.”
“But you seem off again? — in this night-rime?”
“I am off again, and thoroughly off this time.”
“What does that mean?”
“More than may first be seen. . . .

Half an hour ago I footed homeward here,
No wife found I, nor child, nor maid, indoors or near.
She has, as always, gone with them to her mother’s at the farm,
Where they fare better far than here, and, maybe, meet less harm.
She’s left no fire, no light, has cooked me nothing to eat,
Though she had fuel, and money to get some Christmas meat.
Christmas with them is grand, she knows, and brings good victual,
Other than how it is here, where it’s but lean and little.
But though not much, and rough,
If managed neat there’s enough.
She and hers are too highmade for me;
But she’s whimmed her once too often, she’ll see!
Farmer Bollen’s daughter should never have married a man that’s poor;
And I can stand it no longer; I’m leaving; you’ll see me no more, be sure.”

“But nonsense: you’ll be back again ere bedtime, and lighting a fire,
And sizzling your supper, and vexing not that her views of supper are higher.”
“Never for me.”
“Well, we shall see.”

The sceptical neighbour and Stephen then followed their fore-designed ways,
And their steps dimmed into white silence upon the slippery glaze;
And the trees went on with their spitting amid the icicled haze.

The evening whiled, and the wife with the babies came home,
But he was not there, nor all Christmas Day did he come.
Christmastide went, and likewise went the New Year,
But no husband’s footfall revived,
And month after month lapsed, graytime to green and to sere,
And other new years arrived,
And the children grew up: one husbanded and one wived. —
She wept and repented,
But Stephen never relented.
And there stands the house, and the sycamore-tree and all.
With its roots forming steps for the passers who care to call,
And there are the mullioned windows, and Ham-Hill door,
Through which Steve’s wife was brought out, but which Steve re-entered no more.

THE NEW TOY

She cannot leave it alone,
The new toy;
She pats it, smooths it, rights it, to show it’s her own,
As the other train-passengers muse on its temper and tone
Till she draws from it cries of annoy: —
She feigns to appear as if thinking it nothing so rare
Or worthy of pride, to achieve
This wonder a child, though with reason the rest of them there
May so be inclined to believe.

QUEEN CAROLINE TO HER GUESTS

Dear friends, stay!
Lamplit wafts of wit keep sorrow
In the purlieus of to-morrow:
Dear friends, stay!

Haste not away!
Even now may Time be weaving
Tricks of ravage, wrack, bereaving:
Haste not away!

Through the pane,
Lurking along the street, there may be
Heartwrings, keeping hid till day be,
Through the pane.

Check their reign:
Since while here we are the masters,
And can barricade dim disasters:
Check their reign!

Give no ear
To those ghosts withoutside mumming,
Mouthing, threatening, “We are coming!”
Give no ear!

Sheltered here
Care we not that next day bring us
Pains, perversions! No racks wring us
Sheltered here.

Homeward gone,
Sleep will slay this merrymaking;
No resuming it at waking,
Homeward gone.

After dawn
Something sad may be befalling;
Mood like ours there’s no recalling
After dawn!

Morrow-day
Present joy that moments strengthen
May be past our power to lengthen,
Morrow-day!

Dear friends, stay!
Lamplit wafts of wit keep sorrow
In the limbo of to-morrow:
Dear friends, stay!

PLENA TIMORIS

The lovers looked over the parapet-stone:
The moon in its southing directly blent
Its silver with their environment.
Her ear-rings twinkled; her teeth, too, shone
As, his arm around her, they laughed and leant.

A man came up to them; then one more.
“There’s a woman in the canal below,”
They said; climbed over; slid down; let go,
And a splashing was heard, till an arm upbore,
And a dripping body began to show.

“Drowned herself for love of a man,
Who at one time used to meet her here,
Until he grew tired. But she’d wait him near,
And hope, till hopeless despair began.
So much for love in this mortal sphere!”

The girl’s heart shuddered; it seemed as to freeze her
That here, at their tryst for so many a day,
Another woman’s tragedy lay.
Dim dreads of the future grew slowly to seize her,
And her arm dropt from his as they wandered away.

THE WEARY WALKER

A plain in front of me,
And there’s the road
Upon it. Wide country,
And, too, the road!

Past the first ridge another,
And still the road
Creeps on. Perhaps no other
Ridge for the road?

Ah! Past that ridge a third,
Which still the road
Has to climb furtherward —
The thin white road!

Sky seems to end its track;
But no. The road
Trails down the hill at the back.
Ever the road!

LAST LOVE-WORD

(SONG)

This is the last; the very, very last!
Anon, and all is dead and dumb,
Only a pale shroud over the past,
That cannot be
Of value small or vast,
Love, then to me!

I can say no more: I have even said too much.
I did not mean that this should come:
I did not know ‘twould swell to such —
Nor, perhaps, you —
When that first look and touch,
Love, doomed us two!

189*.

NOBODY COMES

Tree-leaves labour up and down,
And through them the fainting light
Succumbs to the crawl of night.
Outside in the road the telegraph wire
To the town from the darkening land
Intones to travellers like a spectral lyre
Swept by a spectral hand.

A car comes up, with lamps full-glare,
That flash upon a tree:
It has nothing to do with me,
And whangs along in a world of its own,
Leaving a blacker air;
And mute by the gate I stand again alone,
And nobody pulls up there.

October 9, 1924.

IN THE STREET

(SONG)

Only acquaintances
Seem do we,
Each of whom, meeting, says
Civilly
“Good morning.” — Yes: thus we appear to be!

But far, near, left and right,
Here or there,
By day or dingiest night,
Everywhere
I see you: one incomparably fair!

So do we wend our ways,
Beautiful girl,
Along our parallel days;
While unfurl
Our futures, and what there may whelm and whirl.

THE LAST LEAF

“The leaves throng thick above: —
Well, I’ll come back, dear Love,
When they all are down!”

She watched that August tree,
(None now scorned summer as she),
Till it broidered it brown.

And then October came blowing,
And the leaves showed signs they were going,
And she saw up through them.

O how she counted them then!
 — November left her but ten,
And started to strew them.

“Ah, when they all are gone,
And the skeleton-time comes on,
Whom shall I see!”

— When the fifteenth spread its sky
That month, her upturned eye
Could count but three.

And at the close of the week
A flush flapped over her cheek:
The last one fell.

But — he did not come. And, at length,
Her hope of him lost all strength,
And it was as a knell. . . .

When he did come again,
Years later, a husband then,
Heavy somewhat,

With a smile she reminded him:
And he cried: “Ah, that vow of our whim! —
Which I forgot,

“As one does! — And was that the tree?
So it was! — Dear me, dear me:
Yes: I forgot.”

AT WYNYARD’S GAP

She
(on horseback)
The hounds pass here?
He
(on horseback)
They did an hour ago,
Just in full cry, and went down-wind, I saw,
Towards Pen Wood, where they may kill, and draw
A second time, and bear towards the Yeo.
She
How vexing! And I’ve crept along unthinking.
He
Ah! — lost in dreams. Fancy to fancy linking!
She
(more softly)
Not that, quite. . . . Now, to settle what I’ll do.
He
Go home again. But have you seen the view
From the top there? Not? It’s really worth your while. —
You must dismount, because there is a stile. They dismount, hitch their horses, and climb a few-score yards from the road.
There you see half South Wessex, — combe, and glen,
And down, to Lewsdon Hill and Pilsdon Pen.
She
Yes. It is fine. And I, though living out there
By Crewkerne, never knew it. (She turns her head)
Well, I declare,
Look at the horses! — How shall I catch my mare? The horses have got loose and scampered off.
Now that’s your fault, through leading me up here!
You must have known ‘twould happen —

He
No, my dear!
She
I’m not your dear.
He
(blandly)
But you can’t help being so,
If it comes to that. The fairest girl I’ve seen
Is of course dear — by her own fault, I mean.
She
(quickly)
What house is that we see just down below?
He
Oh — that’s the inn called “Wynyard’s Gap.” — I’ll go
While you wait here, and catch those brutes. Don’t stir.
He goes. She waits.
She
What a handsome man. Not local, I’ll aver.
He comes back.
He
I met a farmer’s labourer some way on;
He says he’ll bring them to us here anon,
If possible before the day is dim.
Come down to the inn: there we can wait for him.
They descend slowly in that direction.
She
What a lonely inn. Why is there such a one?
He
For us to wait at. Thus ‘tis things are done.
She
Thus things are done? Well — what things do you mean?
He
Romantic things. Meetings unknown, unseen.

She
But ours is accident, and needn’t have been,
And isn’t what I’d plan with a stranger, quite,
Particularly at this time — nearly night.
He
Nor I. But still, the tavern’s loneliness
Is favourable for lovers in distress,
When they’ve eloped, for instance, and are in fear
Of being pursued. No one would find them here. He goes to speak to the labourer approaching; and returns.
He says the horses long have passed the combe,
And cannot be overtaken. They’ll go home.
She
And what’s to be done? And it’s beginning to rain.
‘Tis always so. One trouble brings a train!
He
It seems to me that here we’d better stay
And rest us till some vehicle comes this way:
In fact, we might put up here till the morning:
The floods are high, and night-farers have warning.
She
Put up? Do you think so!
He
I incline to such,
My dear (do you mind?)
She
Yes. — Well (more softly)
, I don’t much,
If I seem like it. But I ought to tell you
One thing. I’m married. Being so, it’s well you —
He
Oh, so am I. (A silence, he regarding her)
I note a charming thing —
You stand so stock-still that your ear-ring shakes
At each pulsation which the vein there makes.

She
Does it? Perhaps because it’s flustering
To be caught thus! (In a murmur)
Why did we chance to meet here!
He
God knows! Perhaps to taste a bitter-sweet here. —
Still, let us enter. Shelter we must get:
The night is darkening and is growing wet.
So, anyhow, you can treat me as a lover
Just for this once. To-morrow ‘twill be over!
They reach the inn. The door is locked, and they discern a board marked “To Let.” While they stand stultified a van is seen drawing near, with passengers.
She
Ah, here’s an end of it! The Crewkerne carrier.
He
So cynic circumstance erects its barrier!
She
(mischievously)
To your love-making, which would have grown stronger,
No doubt, if we had stayed on here much longer?
The carrier comes up. Her companion reluctantly hails him.
He
Yes. . . . And in which you might have shown some ruth,
Had but the inn been open! — Well, forsooth,
I’m sorry it’s not. Are you? Now, dear, the truth!
She
(with gentle evasiveness)
I am — almost. But best ‘tis thus to be.
For — dear one — there I’ve said it! — you can see
That both at one inn (though roomed separately,
Of course) — so lone, too — might have been unfit,
Perfect as ‘tis for lovers, I admit.