The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">       But though he had breeches and waistcoats to spare,

       He had nothing quite seemly for Barbree to wear,

       Who, half shrammed to death, stood and cried on a chair

       At the caddle she found herself in.

      There was one thing to do, and that one thing he did,

       He lent her some clouts of his own,

       And she took ’em perforce; and while in ’em she slid,

       Tim turned to the winder, as modesty bid,

       Thinking, “O that the picter my duty keeps hid

       To the sight o’ my eyes mid be shown!”

      In the tallet he stowed her; there huddied she lay,

       Shortening sleeves, legs, and tails to her limbs;

       But most o’ the time in a mortal bad way,

       Well knowing that there’d be the divel to pay

       If ’twere found that, instead o’ the elements’ prey,

       She was living in lodgings at Tim’s.

      “Where’s the tranter?” said men and boys; “where can er be?”

       “Where’s the tranter?” said Barbree alone.

       “Where on e’th is the tranter?” said everybod-y:

       They sifted the dust of his perished roof-tree,

       And all they could find was a bone.

      Then the uncle cried, “Lord, pray have mercy on me!”

       And in terror began to repent.

       But before ’twas complete, and till sure she was free,

       Barbree drew up her loft-ladder, tight turned her key—

       Tim bringing up breakfast and dinner and tea—

       Till the news of her hiding got vent.

      Then followed the custom-kept rout, shout, and flare

       Of a skimmington-ride through the naibourhood, ere

       Folk had proof o’ wold Sweatley’s decay.

       Whereupon decent people all stood in a stare,

       Saying Tim and his lodger should risk it, and pair:

       So he took her to church. An’ some laughing lads there

       Cried to Tim, “After Sweatley!” She said, “I declare

       I stand as a maiden to-day!”

      Heiress and Architect

       Table of Contents

      For A. W. B.

      She sought the Studios, beckoning to her side

       An arch-designer, for she planned to build.

       He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilled

       In every intervolve of high and wide—

       Well fit to be her guide.

      “Whatever it be,”

       Responded he,

       With cold, clear voice, and cold, clear view,

       “In true accord with prudent fashionings

       For such vicissitudes as living brings,

       And thwarting not the law of stable things,

       That will I do.”

      “Shape me,” she said, “high halls with tracery

       And open ogive-work, that scent and hue

       Of buds, and travelling bees, may come in through,

       The note of birds, and singings of the sea,

       For these are much to me.”

      “An idle whim!”

       Broke forth from him

       Whom nought could warm to gallantries:

       “Cede all these buds and birds, the zephyr’s call,

       And scents, and hues, and things that falter all,

       And choose as best the close and surly wall,

       For winters freeze.”

      “Then frame,” she cried, “wide fronts of crystal glass,

       That I may show my laughter and my light—

       Light like the sun’s by day, the stars’ by night—

       Till rival heart-queens, envying, wail, ‘Alas,

       Her glory!’ as they pass.”

      “O maid misled!”

       He sternly said,

       Whose facile foresight pierced her dire;

       “Where shall abide the soul when, sick of glee,

       It shrinks, and hides, and prays no eye may see?

       Those house them best who house for secrecy,

       For you will tire.”

      “A little chamber, then, with swan and dove

       Ranged thickly, and engrailed with rare device

       Of reds and purples, for a Paradise

       Wherein my Love may greet me, I my Love,

       When he shall know thereof?”

      “This, too, is ill,”

       He answered still,

       The man who swayed her like a shade.

       “An hour will come when sight of such sweet nook

       Would bring a bitterness too sharp to brook,

       When brighter eyes have won away his look;

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