 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE MUSICAL BOX
Lifelong to be
Seemed the fair colour of the time;
That there was standing shadowed near
A spirit who sang to the gentle chime
Of the self-struck notes, I did not hear,
I did not see.
Seemed the fair colour of the time;
That there was standing shadowed near
A spirit who sang to the gentle chime
Of the self-struck notes, I did not hear,
I did not see.
Thus did it sing
To the mindless lyre that played indoors
As she came to listen for me without:
“O value what the nonce outpours—
This best of life—that shines about
Your welcoming!”
To the mindless lyre that played indoors
As she came to listen for me without:
“O value what the nonce outpours—
This best of life—that shines about
Your welcoming!”
I had slowed along
After the torrid hours were done,
Though still the posts and walls and road
Flung back their sense of the hot-faced sun,
And had walked by Stourside Mill, where broad
Stream-lilies throng.
After the torrid hours were done,
Though still the posts and walls and road
454
And had walked by Stourside Mill, where broad
Stream-lilies throng.
And I descried
The dusky house that stood apart,
And her, white-muslined, waiting there
In the porch with high-expectant heart,
While still the thin mechanic air
Went on inside.
The dusky house that stood apart,
And her, white-muslined, waiting there
In the porch with high-expectant heart,
While still the thin mechanic air
Went on inside.
At whiles would flit
Swart bats, whose wings, be-webbed and tanned,
Whirred like the wheels of ancient clocks:
She laughed a hailing as she scanned
Me in the gloom, the tuneful box
Intoning it.
Swart bats, whose wings, be-webbed and tanned,
Whirred like the wheels of ancient clocks:
She laughed a hailing as she scanned
Me in the gloom, the tuneful box
Intoning it.
Lifelong to be
I thought it. That there watched hard by
A spirit who sang to the indoor tune,
“O make the most of what is nigh!”
I did not hear in my dull soul-swoon—
I did not see.
I thought it. That there watched hard by
A spirit who sang to the indoor tune,
“O make the most of what is nigh!”
I did not hear in my dull soul-swoon—
I did not see.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |