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Late Lyrics and Earlier, With Many Other Verses
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A train of sparks my lifetime through.
I almost tremble at his nod —
This next in train – who looks at me
As I were slave, and he were god
Wielding an iron rod.
I close my eyes; yet still is he
In front there, looking mastery.
In the similitude of a nurse
The phantom of the next one comes:
I did not know what better or worse
Chancings might bless or curse
When his original glossed the thrums
Of ivy, bringing that which numbs.
Yes; trees were turning in their sleep
Upon their windy pillows of gray
When he stole in. Silent his creep
On the grassed eastern steep.
I shall not soon forget that day,
And what his third hour took away!
HE FOLLOWS HIMSELF
In a heavy time I dogged myself
Along a louring way,
Till my leading self to my following self
Said: “Why do you hang on me
So harassingly?”
“I have watched you, Heart of mine,” I cried,
“So often going astray
And leaving me, that I have pursued,
Feeling such truancy
Ought not to be.”
He said no more, and I dogged him on
From noon to the dun of day
By prowling paths, until anew
He begged: “Please turn and flee! —
What do you see?”
“Methinks I see a man,” said I,
“Dimming his hours to gray.
I will not leave him while I know
Part of myself is he
Who dreams such dree!”
“I go to my old friend’s house,” he urged,
“So do not watch me, pray!”
“Well, I will leave you in peace,” said I,
“Though of this poignancy
You should fight free:
“Your friend, O other me, is dead;
You know not what you say.”
– “That do I! And at his green-grassed door
By night’s bright galaxy
I bend a knee.”
– The yew-plumes moved like mockers’ beards,
Though only boughs were they,
And I seemed to go; yet still was there,
And am, and there haunt we
Thus bootlessly.
THE SINGING WOMAN
There was a singing woman
Came riding across the mead
At the time of the mild May weather,
Tameless, tireless;
This song she sung: “I am fair, I am young!”
And many turned to heed.
And the same singing woman
Sat crooning in her need
At the time of the winter weather;
Friendless, fireless,
She sang this song: “Life, thou’rt too long!”
And there was none to heed.
WITHOUT, NOT WITHIN HER
It was what you bore with you, Woman,
Not inly were,
That throned you from all else human,
However fair!
It was that strange freshness you carried
Into a soul
Whereon no thought of yours tarried
Two moments at all.
And out from his spirit flew death,
And bale, and ban,
Like the corn-chaff under the breath
Of the winnowing-fan.
I almost tremble at his nod —
This next in train – who looks at me
As I were slave, and he were god
Wielding an iron rod.
I close my eyes; yet still is he
In front there, looking mastery.
In the similitude of a nurse
The phantom of the next one comes:
I did not know what better or worse
Chancings might bless or curse
When his original glossed the thrums
Of ivy, bringing that which numbs.
Yes; trees were turning in their sleep
Upon their windy pillows of gray
When he stole in. Silent his creep
On the grassed eastern steep.
I shall not soon forget that day,
And what his third hour took away!
HE FOLLOWS HIMSELF
In a heavy time I dogged myself
Along a louring way,
Till my leading self to my following self
Said: “Why do you hang on me
So harassingly?”
“I have watched you, Heart of mine,” I cried,
“So often going astray
And leaving me, that I have pursued,
Feeling such truancy
Ought not to be.”
He said no more, and I dogged him on
From noon to the dun of day
By prowling paths, until anew
He begged: “Please turn and flee! —
What do you see?”
“Methinks I see a man,” said I,
“Dimming his hours to gray.
I will not leave him while I know
Part of myself is he
Who dreams such dree!”
“I go to my old friend’s house,” he urged,
“So do not watch me, pray!”
“Well, I will leave you in peace,” said I,
“Though of this poignancy
You should fight free:
“Your friend, O other me, is dead;
You know not what you say.”
– “That do I! And at his green-grassed door
By night’s bright galaxy
I bend a knee.”
– The yew-plumes moved like mockers’ beards,
Though only boughs were they,
And I seemed to go; yet still was there,
And am, and there haunt we
Thus bootlessly.
THE SINGING WOMAN
There was a singing woman
Came riding across the mead
At the time of the mild May weather,
Tameless, tireless;
This song she sung: “I am fair, I am young!”
And many turned to heed.
And the same singing woman
Sat crooning in her need
At the time of the winter weather;
Friendless, fireless,
She sang this song: “Life, thou’rt too long!”
And there was none to heed.
WITHOUT, NOT WITHIN HER
It was what you bore with you, Woman,
Not inly were,
That throned you from all else human,
However fair!
It was that strange freshness you carried
Into a soul
Whereon no thought of yours tarried
Two moments at all.
And out from his spirit flew death,
And bale, and ban,
Like the corn-chaff under the breath
Of the winnowing-fan.
Другие электронные книги автора Томас Харди
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