--Thomas HardyThey hail me as one living,But don't they knowThat I have died of late years,Untombed although?I am but a shape that stands here,A pulseless mould,A pale past picture, screeningAshes gone cold.Not at a minute's warning,Not in a loud hour,For me ceased Time's enchantmentsIn hall and bower.There was no tragic transit,No catch of breath,When silent seasons inched meOn to this death ....— A Troubadour-youth I rambledWith Life for lyre,The beats of being ragingIn me like fire.But when I practised eyeingThe goal of men,It iced me, and I perishedA little then.When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,Through the Last Door,And left me standing bleakly,I died yet more;And when my Love's heart kindledIn hate of me,Wherefore I knew not, died IOne more degree.And if when I died fullyI cannot say,And changed into the corpse-thingI am to-day,Yet is it that, though whilingThe time somehowIn walking, talking, smiling,I live not now.
No comments:
Post a Comment