 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
139
A WASTED ILLNESS
Through vaults of pain,
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness,
I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain
To dire distress.
Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness,
I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain
To dire distress.
And hammerings,
And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent
With webby waxing things and waning things
As on I went.
And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent
With webby waxing things and waning things
As on I went.
“Where lies the end
To this foul way?” I asked with weakening breath.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend—
The door to Death.
To this foul way?” I asked with weakening breath.
Thereon ahead I saw a door extend—
The door to Death.
It loomed more clear:
“At last!” I cried. “The all-delivering door!”
And then, I knew not how, it grew less near
Than theretofore.
“At last!” I cried. “The all-delivering door!”
And then, I knew not how, it grew less near
Than theretofore.
And back slid I
Along the galleries by which I came,
And tediously the day returned, and sky,
And life—the same.
Along the galleries by which I came,
And tediously the day returned, and sky,
And life—the same.
And all was well:
Old circumstance resumed its former show,
And on my head the dews of comfort fell
As ere my woe.
Old circumstance resumed its former show,
And on my head the dews of comfort fell
As ere my woe.
I roam anew,
Scarce conscious of my late distress. . . . And yet
Those backward steps to strength I cannot view
Without regret.
Scarce conscious of my late distress. . . . And yet
Those backward steps to strength I cannot view
Without regret.
For that dire train
Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before,
And those grim chambers, must be ranged again
To reach that door.
Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before,
And those grim chambers, must be ranged again
To reach that door.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |