And show from thereThe dwindled dust
And rot and rust
Of things that were.
III
“Now turn,” spake they to me
One day: “Look whence we came,
And signify his name
Who gazes thence at thee.”—
—“Nor name nor race
Know I, or can,”
I said, “Of man
So commonplace.
IV
“He moves me not at all;
I note no ray or jot
Of rareness in his lot,
Or star exceptional.
Into the dim
Dead throngs around
He’ll sink, nor sound
Be left of him.”
V
“Yet,” said they, “his frail speech,
Hath accents pitched like thine—
Thy mould and his define
A likeness each to each—
But go! Deep pain
Alas, would be
His name to thee,
And told in vain!”
Feb. 2, 1899.
Memory and I
“O memory, where is now my youth,
Who used to say that life was truth?”
“I saw him in a crumbled cot
Beneath a tottering tree;
That he as phantom lingers there
Is only known to me.”
“O Memory, where is now my joy,
Who lived with me in sweet employ?”
“I saw him in gaunt gardens lone,
Where laughter used to be;
That he as phantom wanders there
Is known to none but me.”
“O Memory, where is now my hope,
Who charged with deeds my skill and scope?”
“I saw her in a tomb of tomes,
Where dreams are wont to be;
That she as spectre haunteth there
Is only known to me.”
“O Memory, where is now my faith,
One time a champion, now a wraith?”
“I saw her in a ravaged aisle,
Bowed down on bended knee;
That her poor ghost outflickers there
Is known to none but me.”
“O Memory, where is now my love,
That rayed me as a god above?”
“I saw him by an ageing shape
Where beauty used to be;
That his fond phantom lingers there
Is only known to me.”
ΑΓΝΩΣΤΩ. ΘΕΩ.
Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee,
O Willer masked and dumb!
Who makest Life become,—
As though by labouring all-unknowingly,
Like one whom reveries numb.
How much of consciousness informs Thy will
Thy biddings, as if blind,
Of death-inducing kind,
Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill
But moments in Thy mind.
Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways
Thy ripening rule transcends;
That listless effort tends
To grow percipient with advance of days,
And with percipience mends.
For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh,
At whiles or short or long,
May be discerned a wrong
Dying as of self-slaughter; whereat I
Would raise my voice in song.
1. The “Race” is the turbulent sea-area off the Bill of Portland, where contrary tides meet.
2. Pronounce “Loddy.”
3. On a lonely table-land above the Vale of Blackmore, between High-Stoy and Bubb-Down hills, and commanding in clear weather views that extend from the English to the Bristol Channel, stands a pillar, apparently mediæval, called Cross-and-Hand or Christ-in-Hand. Among other stories of its origin a local tradition preserves the one here given.
Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses
by
Thomas Hardy
