 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
AT A SEASIDE TOWN IN 1869
(Young Lover's Reverie)
I went and stood outside myself,
Spelled the dark sky
And ship-lights nigh,
And grumbling winds that passed thereby.
Spelled the dark sky
And ship-lights nigh,
And grumbling winds that passed thereby.
Then next inside myself I looked,
And there, above
All, shone my Love,
That nothing matched the image of.
And there, above
All, shone my Love,
That nothing matched the image of.
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Beyond myself again I ranged;
And saw the free
Life by the sea,
And folk indifferent to me.
And saw the free
Life by the sea,
And folk indifferent to me.
O 'twas a charm to draw within
Thereafter, where
But she was; care
For one thing only, her hid there.
Thereafter, where
But she was; care
For one thing only, her hid there.
But so it chanced, without myself
I had to look,
And then I took
More heed of what I had long forsook:
I had to look,
And then I took
More heed of what I had long forsook:
The boats, the sands, the esplanade,
The laughing crowd;
Light-hearted, loud
Greetings from some not ill-endowed:
The laughing crowd;
Light-hearted, loud
Greetings from some not ill-endowed:
The evening sunlit cliffs, the talk,
Hailings and halts,
The keen sea-salts,
The band, the Morgenblätter Waltz
Hailings and halts,
The keen sea-salts,
The band, the Morgenblätter Waltz
Still, when at night I drew inside
Forward she came,
Sad, but the same
As when I first had known her name
Forward she came,
Sad, but the same
As when I first had known her name
Then rose a time when, as by force,
Outwardly wooed
By contacts crude,
Her image in abeyance stood . . . .
Outwardly wooed
By contacts crude,
Her image in abeyance stood . . . .
At last I said; This outside life
Shall not endure;
I'll seek the pure
Thought-world, and bask in her allure.
Shall not endure;
I'll seek the pure
Thought-world, and bask in her allure.
Myself again I crept within,
Scanned with keen care
The temple where
She'd shone, but could not find her there.
Scanned with keen care
The temple where
She'd shone, but could not find her there.
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I sought and sought. But O her soul
Has not since thrown
Upon my own
One beam! Yea, she is gone, is gone.
Has not since thrown
Upon my own
One beam! Yea, she is gone, is gone.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |