Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (1005 page)

Her neighbours behind were dancing
Under a marquee;
Two violoncellos played there,
And violins three.

She had not been invited,
Although her lover was;
She lay beside her husband,
Perplexed at the cause.

Sweet after sweet quadrille rang:
Absence made her weep;
The tears dried on her eyelids
As she fell asleep.

She dreamt she was whirling with him
In this dance upon the green
To which she was not invited
Though her lover had been.

All night she danced as he clasped her —
That is, in the happy dream
The music kept her dreaming
Till the first daybeam.

“O damn those noisy fiddles!”
Her husband said as he turned:
“Close to a neighbour’s bedroom:
I’d like them burned!”

At intervals thus all night-long
Her husband swore. But she
Slept on, and danced in the loved arms,
Under the marquee.

Next day she found that her lover,
Though asked, had gone elsewhere,
And that she had possessed him in absence
More than if there.

AFTER THE BURIAL

The family had buried him,
Their bread-bringer, their best:
They had returned to the house, whose hush a dim
Vague vacancy expressed.

There sat his sons, mute, rigid-faced,
His daughters, strained, red-eyed,
His wife, whose wan, worn features, vigil-traced,
Bent over him when he died.

At once a peal bursts from the bells
Of a large tall tower hard by:
Along the street the jocund clangour swells,
And upward to the sky.

Probably it was a wedding-peal,
Or possibly for a birth,
Or townsman knighted for political zeal,
This resonant mark of mirth.

The mourners, heavy-browed, sat on
Motionless. Well they heard,
They could not help it; nevertheless thereon
Spoke not a single word,

Nor window did they close, to numb
The bells’ insistent calls
Of joy; but suffered the harassing din to come
And penetrate their souls.

THE MONGREL

In Havenpool Harbour the ebb was strong,
And a man with a dog drew near and hung,
And taxpaying day was coming along,
So the mongrel had to be drowned.
The man threw a stick from the paved wharf-side
Into the midst of the ebbing tide,
And the dog jumped after with ardent pride
To bring the stick aground.

But no: the steady suck of the flood
To seaward needed, to be withstood,
More than the strength of mongrelhood
To fight its treacherous trend.
So, swimming for life with desperate will,
The struggler with all his natant skill
Kept buoyant in front of his master still
There standing to wait the end.

The loving eyes of the dog inclined
To the man he held as a god enshrined,
With no suspicion in his mind
That this had all been meant.
Till the effort not to drift from shore
Of his little legs grew slower and slower,
And, the tide still outing with brookless power,
Outward the dog, too, went.

Just ere his sinking what does one see
Break on the face of that devotee?
A wakening to the treachery
He had loved with love so blind?
The faith that had shone in that mongrel’s eye
That his owner would save him by and by
Turned to much like a curse as he sank to die,
And a loathing of mankind.

CONCERNING AGNES

I am stopped from hoping what I have hoped before —
Yes, many a time! —
To dance with that fair woman yet once more
As in the prime
Of August, when the wide-faced moon looked through
The boughs at the faery lamps of the Larmer Avenue.

I could not, though I should wish, have over again
That old romance,
And sit apart in the shade as we sat then
After the dance
The while I held her hand, and, to the booms
Of contrabassos, feet still pulsed from the distant rooms.

I could not. And you do not ask me why.
Hence you infer
That what may chance to the fairest under the sky
Has chanced to her.
Yes. She lies white, straight, features marble-keen,
Unapproachable, mute, in a nook I have never seen.

There she may rest like some vague goddess, shaped
As out of snow;
Say Aphrodite sleeping; or bedraped
Like Kalupso;
Or Amphitrite stretched on the Mid-sea swell,
Or one of the Nine grown stiff from thought. I cannot tell!

HENLEY REGATTA

She looks from the window: still it pours down direly,
And the avenue drips. She cannot go, she fears;
And the Regatta will be spoilt entirely;
And she sheds half-crazed tears.

Regatta Day and rain come on together
Again, years after. Gutters trickle loud;
But Nancy cares not. She knows nought of weather,
Or of the Henley crowd:

She’s a Regatta quite her own. Inanely
She laughs in the asylum as she floats
Within a water-tub, which she calls “Henley,”
Her little paper boats.

AN EVENING IN GALILEE

She looks far west towards Carmel, shading her eyes with her hand,
And she then looks east to the Jordan, and the smooth Tiberias’ strand.
“Is my son mad?” she asks; and never an answer has she,
Save from herself, aghast at the possibility.
“He professes as his firm faiths things far too grotesque to be true,
And his vesture is odd — too careless for one of his fair young hue! . . .

“He lays down doctrines as if he were old — aye, fifty at least:
In the Temple he terrified me, opposing the very High-Priest!
Why did he say to me, ‘Woman, what have I to do with thee?’
O it cuts to the heart that a child of mine thus spoke to me!
And he said, too, ‘Who is my mother?’ — when he knows so very well.
He might have said, ‘Who is my father?’ — and I’d found it hard to tell!
That
no one knows but Joseph and — one other, nor ever will;
One who’ll not see me again. . . . How it chanced! — I dreaming no ill! . . .

“Would he’d not mix with the lowest folk — like those fishermen —
The while so capable, culling new knowledge, beyond our ken! . . .
That woman of no good character, ever following him,
Adores him if I mistake not: his wish of her is but a whim
Of his madness, it may be, outmarking his lack of coherency;
After his ‘Keep the Commandments!’ to smile upon such as she!
It is just what all those do who are wandering in their wit.
I don’t know — dare not say — what harm may grow from it.

O a mad son is a terrible thing; it even may lead
To arrest, and death! . . . And how he can preach, expound, and read!
“Here comes my husband. Shall I unveil him this tragedy-brink?
No. He has nightmares enough. I’ll pray, and think, and think.” . . .
She remembers she’s never put on any pot for his evening meal,
And pondering a plea looks vaguely to south of her — towards Jezreel.

THE BROTHER

O know you what I have done
To avenge our sister? She,
I thought, was wantoned with
By a man of levity:

And I lay in wait all day,
All day did I wait for him,
And dogged him to Bollard Head
When twilight dwindled dim,

And hurled him over the edge
And heard him fall below:
O would I were lying with him,
For the truth I did not know!

“O where’s my husband?” she asked,
As evening wore away:
“Best you had one, forsooth,
But never had you!” I say.

“Yes, but I have!” says she,
“My Love made it up with me,
And we churched it yesterday
And mean to live happily.”

And now I go in haste
To the Head, before she’s aware,
To join him in death for the wrong
I’ve done them both out there!

WE FIELD-WOMEN

How it rained
When we worked at Flintcomb-Ash,
And could not stand upon the hill
Trimming swedes for the slicing-mill.
The wet washed through us — plash, plash, plash:
How it rained!

How it snowed
When we crossed from Flintcomb-Ash
To the Great Barn for drawing reed,
Since we could nowise chop a swede. —
Flakes in each doorway and casement-sash:
How it snowed!

How it shone
When we went from Flintcomb-Ash
To start at dairywork once more
In the laughing meads, with cows three-score,
And pails, and songs, and love — too rash:
How it shone!

A PRACTICAL WOMAN

“O who’ll get me a healthy child: —
I should prefer a son —
Seven have I had in thirteen years,
Sickly every one!

“Three mope about as feeble shapes;
Weak; white; they’ll be no good.
One came deformed; an idiot next;
And two are crass as wood.

“I purpose one not only sound
In flesh, but bright in mind:
And duly for producing him
A means I’ve now to find.”

She went away. She disappeared,
Years, years. Then back she came:
In her hand was a blooming boy
Mentally and in frame.

“I found a father at last who’d suit
The purpose in my head,
And used him till he’d done his job,”
Was all thereon she said.

SQUIRE HOOPER

Hooper was ninety. One September dawn
He sent a messenger
For his physician, who asked thereupon
What ailed the sufferer
Which he might circumvent, and promptly bid begone.

“Doctor, I summoned you,” the squire replied —
“Pooh-pooh me though you may —
To ask what’s happened to me — burst inside,
It seems — not much, I’d say —
But awkward with a house-full here for a shoot to-day.”

And he described the symptoms. With bent head
The listener looked grave.
“H’m. . . .
You’re a dead man in six hours
,” he said. —
“I speak out, since you are brave —
And best ‘tis you should know, that last things may be sped.”

“Right,” said the squire. “And now comes — what to do?
One thing: on no account
Must I now spoil the sport I’ve asked them to —
My guests are paramount —
They must scour scrub and stubble; and big bags bring as due.”

He downed to breakfast, and bespoke his guests: —
“I find I have to go
An unexpected journey, and it rests
With you, my friends, to show
The shoot can go off gaily, whether I’m there or no.”

Thus blandly spoke he; and to the fields they went,
And Hooper up the stair.
They had a glorious day; and stiff and spent
Returned as dusk drew near. —
“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, “he’s not back as meant,

To his deep regret!” — So they took leave, each guest
Observing: “I dare say
Business detains him in the town: ‘tis best
We should no longer stay
Just now. We’ll come again anon”; and they went their way.

Meeting two men in the obscurity
Shouldering a box a thin
Cloth-covering wrapt, one sportsman cried: “Damn me,
I thought them carrying in,
At first, a coffin; till I knew it could not be.”

A GENTLEMAN’S SECOND-HAND SUIT

Here it is hanging in the sun
By the pawn-shop door,
A dress-suit — all its revels done
Of heretofore.
Long drilled to the waltzers’ swing and sway,
As its tokens show:
What it has seen, what it could say
If it did but know!

The sleeve bears still a print of powder
Rubbed from her arms
When she warmed up as the notes swelled louder
And livened her charms —
Or rather theirs, for beauties many
Leant there, no doubt,
Leaving these tell-tale traces when he
Spun them about.

Its cut seems rather in bygone style
On looking close,
So it mayn’t have bent it for some while
To the dancing pose:
Anyhow, often within its clasp
Fair partners hung,
Assenting to the wearer’s grasp
With soft sweet tongue.

Where is, alas, the gentleman
Who wore this suit?
And where are his ladies? Tell none can:
Gossip is mute.
Some of them may forget him quite
Who smudged his sleeve,
Some think of a wild and whirling night
With him, and grieve.

WE SAY WE SHALL NOT MEET

We say we shall not meet
Again beneath this sky,
And turn with leaden feet,
Murmuring “Good-bye!”

But laugh at how we rued
Our former time’s adieu
When those who went for good
Are met anew.

We talk in lightest vein
On trifles talked before,
And part to meet again,
But meet no more.

SEEING THE MOON RISE

We used to go to Froom-hill Barrow
To see the round moon rise
Into the heath-rimmed skies,
Trudging thither by plough and harrow
Up the pathway, steep and narrow,
Singing a song.
Now we do not go there. Why?
Zest burns not so high!

Latterly we’ve only conned her
With a passing glance
From window or door by chance,
Hoping to go again, high yonder,
As we used, and gaze, and ponder,
Singing a song.
Thitherward we do not go:
Feet once quick are slow!

August 1927

SONG TO AURORE

We’ll not begin again to love,
It only leads to pain;
The fire we now are master of
Has seared us not in vain.
Any new step of yours I’m fain
To hear of from afar,
And even in such may find a gain
While lodged not where you are.

No: that must not be done anew
Which has been done before;
I scarce could bear to seek, or view,
Or clasp you any more!
Life is a labour, death is sore,
And lonely living wrings;
But go your courses, Sweet Aurore,
Kisses are caresome things!