 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
479
HE FEARS HIS GOOD FORTUNE
There was a glorious time
At an epoch of my prime;
Mornings beryl-bespread,
And evenings golden-red;
Nothing gray:
And in my heart I said,
“However this chanced to be,
It is too full for me,
Too rare, too rapturous, rash,
Its spell must close with a crash
Some day!”
At an epoch of my prime;
Mornings beryl-bespread,
And evenings golden-red;
Nothing gray:
And in my heart I said,
“However this chanced to be,
It is too full for me,
Too rare, too rapturous, rash,
Its spell must close with a crash
Some day!”
The radiance went on
Anon and yet anon,
And sweetness fell around
Like manna on the ground.
“I've no claim,”
Said I, “to be thus crowned:
I am not worthy this:—
Must it not go amiss?—
Well . . . let the end foreseen
Come duly!—I am serene.”
—And it came.
Anon and yet anon,
And sweetness fell around
Like manna on the ground.
“I've no claim,”
Said I, “to be thus crowned:
I am not worthy this:—
Must it not go amiss?—
Well . . . let the end foreseen
Come duly!—I am serene.”
—And it came.
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |