 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
IN A CATHEDRAL CITY
These people have not heard your name;
No loungers in this placid place
Have helped to bruit your beauty's fame.
No loungers in this placid place
Have helped to bruit your beauty's fame.
The grey Cathedral, towards whose face
Bend eyes untold, has met not yours;
Your shade has never swept its base,
Bend eyes untold, has met not yours;
Your shade has never swept its base,
Your form has never darked its doors,
Nor have your faultless feet once thrown
A pensive pit-pat on its floors.
Nor have your faultless feet once thrown
A pensive pit-pat on its floors.
Along the street to maids well known
Blithe lovers hum their tender airs,
But in your praise voice not a tone. . . .
Blithe lovers hum their tender airs,
But in your praise voice not a tone. . . .
—Since nought bespeaks you here, or bears,
As I, your imprint through and through,
Here might I rest, till my heart shares
The spot's unconsciousness of you!
As I, your imprint through and through,
Here might I rest, till my heart shares
The spot's unconsciousness of you!
Salisbury.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |