The Complete Poetical Works. Томас Харди
To be endeared
By stealth to one,
You disappeared
My Lizbie Browne!
V
Ay, Lizbie Browne,
So swift your life,
And mine so slow,
You were a wife
Ere I could show
Love, Lizbie Browne.
VI
Still, Lizbie Browne,
You won, they said,
The best of men
When you were wed . . .
Where went you then,
O Lizbie Browne?
VII
Dear Lizbie Browne,
I should have thought,
“Girls ripen fast,”
And coaxed and caught
You ere you passed,
Dear Lizbie Browne!
VIII
But, Lizbie Browne,
I let you slip;
Shaped not a sign;
Touched never your lip
With lip of mine,
Lost Lizbie Browne!
IX
So, Lizbie Browne,
When on a day
Men speak of me
As not, you’ll say,
“And who was he?”—
Yes, Lizbie Browne!
Song of Hope
O sweet To-morrow!—
After to-day
There will away
This sense of sorrow.
Then let us borrow
Hope, for a gleaming
Soon will be streaming,
Dimmed by no gray—
No gray!
While the winds wing us
Sighs from The Gone,
Nearer to dawn
Minute-beats bring us;
When there will sing us
Larks of a glory
Waiting our story
Further anon—
Anon!
Doff the black token,
Don the red shoon,
Right and retune
Viol-strings broken;
Null the words spoken
In speeches of rueing,
The night cloud is hueing,
To-morrow shines soon—
Shines soon!
The Well-Beloved
I wayed by star and planet shine
Towards the dear one’s home
At Kingsbere, there to make her mine
When the next sun upclomb.
I edged the ancient hill and wood
Beside the Ikling Way,
Nigh where the Pagan temple stood
In the world’s earlier day.
And as I quick and quicker walked
On gravel and on green,
I sang to sky, and tree, or talked
Of her I called my queen.
—“O faultless is her dainty form,
And luminous her mind;
She is the God-created norm
Of perfect womankind!”
A shape whereon one star-blink gleamed
Glode softly by my side,
A woman’s; and her motion seemed
The motion of my bride.
And yet methought she’d drawn erstwhile
Adown the ancient leaze,
Where once were pile and peristyle
For men’s idolatries.
—“O maiden lithe and lone, what may
Thy name and lineage be,
Who so resemblest by this ray
My darling?—Art thou she?”
The Shape: “Thy bride remains within
Her father’s grange and grove.”
—“Thou speakest rightly,” I broke in,
“Thou art not she I love.”
—“Nay: though thy bride remains inside
Her father’s walls,” said she,
“The one most dear is with thee here,
For thou dost love but me.”
Then I: “But she, my only choice,
Is now at Kingsbere Grove?”
Again her soft mysterious voice:
“I am thy only Love.”
Thus still she vouched, and still I said,
“O sprite, that cannot be!” . . .
It was as if my bosom bled,
So much she troubled me.
The sprite resumed: “Thou hast transferred
To her dull form awhile
My beauty, fame, and deed, and word,
My gestures and my smile.
“O fatuous man, this truth infer,
Brides are not what they seem;
Thou lovest what thou dreamest her;
I am thy very dream!”
—“O then,” I answered miserably,
Speaking as scarce I knew,
“My loved one, I must wed with thee
If what thou say’st be true!”
She, proudly, thinning in the gloom:
“Though, since troth-plight began,
I’ve ever stood as bride to groom,
I wed no mortal man!”
Thereat she vanished by the Cross
That, entering Kingsbere town,
The two long lanes form, near the fosse
Below the faneless Down.
—When I arrived and met my bride,
Her look was pinched and thin,
As if her soul had shrunk and died,