The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди

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      III

      “The Keeper of the Field of Tombs

       Dwells by its gateway-pier;

       He celebrates with feast and dance

       His daughter’s twentieth year:

       He celebrates with wine of France

       The birthday of his dear.”—

      IV

      “The gates are shut when evening glooms:

       Lay down your wreath, sad wight;

       To-morrow is a time more fit

       For placing flowers aright:

       The morning is the time for it;

       Come, wake with us to-night!”—

      V

      He grounds his wreath, and enters in,

       And sits, and shares their cheer.—

       “I fain would foot with you, young man,

       Before all others here;

       I fain would foot it for a span

       With such a cavalier!”

      VI

      She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win

       His first-unwilling hand:

       The merry music strikes its staves,

       The dancers quickly band;

       And with the damsel of the graves

       He duly takes his stand.

      VII

      “You dance divinely, stranger swain,

       Such grace I’ve never known.

       O longer stay! Breathe not adieu

       And leave me here alone!

       O longer stay: to her be true

       Whose heart is all your own!”—

      VIII

      “I mark a phantom through the pane,

       That beckons in despair,

       Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan—

       Her to whom once I sware!”—

       “Nay; ’tis the lately carven stone

       Of some strange girl laid there!”—

      IX

      “I see white flowers upon the floor

       Betrodden to a clot;

       My wreath were they?”—“Nay; love me much,

       Swear you’ll forget me not!

       ’Twas but a wreath! Full many such

       Are brought here and forgot.”

      * * * * * * *

      X

      The watches of the night grow hoar,

       He rises ere the sun;

       “Now could I kill thee here!” he says,

       “For winning me from one

       Who ever in her living days

       Was pure as cloistered nun!”

      XI

      She cowers, and he takes his track

       Afar for many a mile,

       For evermore to be apart

       From her who could beguile

       His senses by her burning heart,

       And win his love awhile.

      XII

      A year: and he is travelling back

       To her who wastes in clay;

       From day-dawn until eve he fares

       Along the wintry way,

       From day-dawn until eve repairs

       Unto her mound to pray.

      XIII

      And there he sets him to fulfil

       His frustrate first intent:

       And lay upon her bed, at last,

       The offering earlier meant:

       When, on his stooping figure, ghast

       And haggard eyes are bent.

      XIV

      “O surely for a little while

       You can be kind to me!

       For do you love her, do you hate,

       She knows not—cares not she:

       Only the living feel the weight

       Of loveless misery!

      XV

      “I own my sin; I’ve paid its cost,

       Being outcast, shamed, and bare:

       I give you daily my whole heart,

       Your babe my tender care,

       I pour you prayers; and aye to part

       Is more than I can bear!”

      XVI

      He turns—unpitying, passion-tossed;

       “I know you not!” he cries,

       “Nor know your child. I knew this maid,

       But she’s in Paradise!”

       And swiftly in the winter shade

       He breaks from her and flies.

      Imitations, Etc.

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