When we get there it's 'most sure to be fine, And the band will play, and the sun will shine!"It rained on the skylight with a din As we waited and still no train came in;But the words of the child in the squalid room Had spread a glory through the gloom.
THE CLOCK-WINDER
It is dark as a cave, Or a vault in the nave When the iron door Is closed, and the floor Of the church relaid With trowel and spade.
But the parish-clerk Cares not for the dark As he winds in the tower At a regular hour The rheumatic clock, Whose dilatory knock You can hear when praying At the day's decaying, Or at any lone while From a pew in the aisle.
Up, up from the ground Around and around In the turret stair He clambers, to where The wheelwork is, With its tick, click, whizz, Reposefully measuring Each day to its end That mortal men spend In sorrowing and pleasuring Nightly thus does he climb To the trackway of Time.
Him I followed one night To this place without light, And, ere I spoke, heard Him say, word by word, At the end of his winding, The darkness unminding:-"So I wipe out one more, My Dear, of the sore Sad days that still be, Like a drying Dead Sea, Between you and me!"Who she was no man knew:
He had long borne him blind To all womankind;And was ever one who Kept his past out of view.
OLD EXCURSIONS
"What's the good of going to Ridgeway, Cerne, or Sydling Mill, Or to Yell'ham Hill, Blithely bearing Casterbridge-way As we used to do?
She will no more climb up there, Or be visible anywhere In those haunts we knew."But to-night, while walking weary, Near me seemed her shade, Come as 'twere to upbraid This my mood in deeming dreary Scenes that used to please;And, if she did come to me, Still solicitous, there may be Good in going to these.
So, I'll care to roam to Ridgeway, Cerne, or Sydling Mill, Or to Yell'ham Hill, Blithely bearing Casterbridge-way As we used to do, Since her phasm may flit out there, And may greet me anywhere In those haunts we knew.
April 1913.
THE MASKED FACE
I found me in a great surging space, At either end a door, And I said: "What is this giddying place, With no firm-fixed floor, That I knew not of before?""It is Life," said a mask-clad face.
I asked: "But how do I come here, Who never wished to come;Can the light and air be made more clear, The floor more quietsome, And the doors set wide? They numb Fast-locked, and fill with fear."The mask put on a bleak smile then, And said, "O vassal-wight, There once complained a goosequill pen To the scribe of the Infinite Of the words it had to write Because they were past its ken."IN A WHISPERING GALLERY
That whisper takes the voice Of a Spirit's compassionings Close, but invisible, And throws me under a spell At the kindling vision it brings;And for a moment I rejoice, And believe in transcendent things That would mould from this muddy earth A spot for the splendid birth Of everlasting lives, Whereto no night arrives;And this gaunt gray gallery A tabernacle of worth On this drab-aired afternoon, When you can barely see Across its hazed lacune If opposite aught there be Of fleshed humanity Wherewith I may commune;Or if the voice so near Be a soul's voice floating here.
THE SOMETHING THAT SAVED HIM
It was when Whirls of thick waters laved me Again and again, That something arose and saved me;Yea, it was then.
In that day Unseeing the azure went I
On my way, And to white winter bent I, Knowing no May.
Reft of renown, Under the night clouds beating Up and down, In my needfulness greeting Cit and clown.
Long there had been Much of a murky colour In the scene, Dull prospects meeting duller;Nought between.
Last, there loomed A closing-in blind alley, Though there boomed A feeble summons to rally Where it gloomed.
The clock rang;
The hour brought a hand to deliver;
I upsprang, And looked back at den, ditch and river, And sang.
THE ENEMY'S PORTRAIT
He saw the portrait of his enemy, offered At auction in a street he journeyed nigh, That enemy, now late dead, who in his life-time Had injured deeply him the passer-by.
"To get that picture, pleased be God, I'll try, And utterly destroy it; and no more Shall be inflicted on man's mortal eye A countenance so sinister and sore!"And so he bought the painting. Driving homeward, "The frame will come in useful," he declared, "The rest is fuel." On his arrival, weary, Asked what he bore with him, and how he fared, He said he had bid for a picture, though he cared For the frame only: on the morrow he Would burn the canvas, which could well be spared, Seeing that it portrayed his enemy.
Next day some other duty found him busy;
The foe was laid his face against the wall;But on the next he set himself to loosen The straining-strips. And then a casual call Prevented his proceeding therewithal;And thus the picture waited, day by day, Its owner's pleasure, like a wretched thrall, Until a month and more had slipped away.
And then upon a morn he found it shifted, Hung in a corner by a servitor.
"Why did you take on you to hang that picture?
You know it was the frame I bought it for.""It stood in the way of every visitor, And I just hitched it there."--"Well, it must go:
I don't commemorate men whom I abhor.
Remind me 'tis to do. The frame I'll stow."But things become forgotten. In the shadow Of the dark corner hung it by its string, And there it stayed--once noticed by its owner, Who said, "Ah me--I must destroy that thing!"But when he died, there, none remembering, It hung, till moved to prominence, as one sees;And comers pause and say, examining, "I thought they were the bitterest enemies?"IMAGININGS
She saw herself a lady With fifty frocks in wear, And rolling wheels, and rooms the best, And faithful maidens' care, And open lawns and shady For weathers warm or drear.
She found herself a striver, All liberal gifts debarred, With days of gloom, and movements stressed, And early visions marred, And got no man to wive her But one whose lot was hard.
Yet in the moony night-time She steals to stile and lea During his heavy slumberous rest When homecome wearily, And dreams of some blest bright-time She knows can never be.
ON THE DOORSTEP
