The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди

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СКАЧАТЬ me alone; one better he were not here.

      The stout upstanders say, All’s well with us: ruers have nought to rue!

       And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?

       Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,

       Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here.

      Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet;

       Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,

       And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;

       Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here? . . .

      Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash of the First,

       Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,

       Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom, and fear,

       Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.

      1895–96.

      III

      “Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit aninia mea.”—Ps. cxix.

      There have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come—

       Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing—

       Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing:

       Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come!

      Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh,

       And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border,

       Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order,

       Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby.

      Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood,

       She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together,

       Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather,

       Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued.

      Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin,

       Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there,

       Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there—

       Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join.

      Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb,

       That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward,

       Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered,

       Then might the Voice that is law have said “Cease!” and the ending have come.

      1896.

      The Church-Builder

       Table of Contents

      I

      The church flings forth a battled shade

       Over the moon-blanched sward;

       The church; my gift; whereto I paid

       My all in hand and hoard:

       Lavished my gains

       With stintless pains

       To glorify the Lord.

      II

      I squared the broad foundations in

       Of ashlared masonry;

       I moulded mullions thick and thin,

       Hewed fillet and ogee;

       I circleted

       Each sculptured head

       With nimb and canopy.

      III

      I called in many a craftsmaster

       To fix emblazoned glass,

       To figure Cross and Sepulchre

       On dossal, boss, and brass.

       My gold all spent,

       My jewels went

       To gem the cups of Mass.

      IV

      I borrowed deep to carve the screen

       And raise the ivoried Rood;

       I parted with my small demesne

       To make my owings good.

       Heir-looms unpriced

       I sacrificed,

       Until debt-free I stood.

      V

      So closed the task. “Deathless the Creed

       Here substanced!” said my soul:

       “I heard me bidden to this deed,

       And straight obeyed the call.

       Illume this fane,

       That not in vain

       I build it, Lord of all!”

      VI

      But, as it chanced me, then and there

       Did dire misfortunes burst;

       My home went waste for lack of care,

       My sons rebelled and curst;

       Till I confessed

       That aims the best

       Were looking like the worst.

      VII

      Enkindled by my votive work

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