Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee,
O Willer masked and dumb!
Who makest Life become, -
As though by labouring all-unknowingly,
Like one whom reveries numb.
How much of consciousness informs Thy will
Thy biddings, as if blind,
Of death-inducing kind,
Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill
But moments in Thy mind.
Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways
Thy ripening rule transcends;
That listless effort tends
To grow percipient with advance of days,
And with percipience mends.
For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh,
At whiles or short or long,
May be discerned a wrong
Dying as of self-slaughter; whereat I
Would raise my voice in song.
written by Thomas Hardy, published on Fri 12.12.2008 at 09:57
AS evening shaped I found me on a moor
Which sight could scarce sustain:
The black lean land, of featureless contour,
written by Thomas Hardy, published on Sun 12.07.2008 at 16:24
I say, "She was as good as fair,"
When standing by her mound;
"Such passing sweetness," I declare,
written by Thomas Hardy, published on Fri 11.28.2008 at 17:56
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
written by Thomas Hardy, published on Thu 11.27.2008 at 09:19
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
written by Thomas Hardy, published on Fri 11.21.2008 at 19:22
Whence comes Solace?--Not from seeing
What is doing, suffering, being,
Not from noting Life's conditions,