SATIRES
OF CIRCUMSTANCE
LYRICS AND REVERIES
WITH VARIOUS ITEMS

BY
THOMAS HARDY

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON
1919

COPYRIGHT

First Edition 1914
Reprinted 1915, 1919
Pocket Edition 1919

Scuba diving and working through a flood of images,
Painful yet precious,
I moved ahead as if through a sea of chaos
All around,
Where the familiar scenery shone through the swirling currents
Both far and near,

Blotted to weak mist. And the valley and the highland
Tree-covered,
Ancient chalk-pit, milestone, streams in the grass flat
Touched by the light,
Looked just like a ghostly veil, and no real
Meadow or hill.

What were the endless sights looming
Right in front of me,
p. 4Preventing me from seeing my slow progress
Stretching out for miles;
What were the distractions wasting the day
Just like the night?

O they had expressive faces, gazing intently,
   Some with smiles,
Some with slowly formed tears that rolled
   Over the ruined
Cheeks that were beautiful in their prime, now pale with pain,
   Tormented by tricks.

Yes, I could see them, feel them, hear them, address them—
   Halo-decorated—
And, sadly, moving forward, shaken by intense confusion,
   Stiff with hatred,
Affected by years of bitterness from misunderstanding,
   Feared, distrusted.

Then there would be bright moments for me, sweet times
Further in the future;
String instruments with the softest feelings
Vibrant, beside
p. 5Long-extinguished lamps, clothing, faces, eyes with the earth’s surface
Now unified.

Also, there appeared a gray headland
Eroded by the tide,
Fringed by the morning mist as two friends stood there
Innocently happy—
For they didn't know why—touched by the edge of a
Faint joy.

Later images also revealed my day,
Shadowed and sad,
Clay bodies of those who had participated in the stories,
Now laid to rest,
All passions spent, especially the one of the broad brow
Dressed for burial.

So I was surrounded by scenes wrongly labeled as the past,
Over the meadow,
Past the group of trees, and down to where the ones I saw lay;
—Yeah, just like the rhyme
Sung by the waves, these captured me with their silent pleas.

p. 6For, their lost memories of visiting
In their own time
I had overlooked so much, not caring for their meaning,
Looking past
Things more desired, thinking they were worth calling
Sweet, sad, sublime.

Thus do they now show hourly before the intenser
Stare of the mind
As if they were ghosts avenging their past slights on my Body-borne eyes,
Show, too, with fuller translation than rested upon them
As living beings.

Thus, people walking by whisper, saying
In their guess,
“Ah—who is this lifeless figure that wanders, seeing nothing
Around him that stands
Wherever he walks in his travels,
Except for a few graves?”

That night your big guns, unexpectedly,
Shook all our coffins as we rested,
And shattered the chancel window panes,
We thought it was Judgment Day.

And sat up straight. While it was gloomy
The howls of awakened hounds rose:
The mouse dropped the altar crumb,
The worms pulled back into the mounds,

The farm cow drooled. Until God called, “No;
It’s target practice out at sea
Just like before you went below;
The world is just how it always was:

“All nations working hard to make
Red war even bloodier. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christ’s sake
Than you who are powerless in such matters.”

p. 8“It’s a good thing that this isn’t the hour of judgment,
Because if it were, they’d have to scrub
Hell’s floor for all that threatening . . .

“Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if I ever do;
because you are men,
And you really need eternal rest).”

So we lay down again. “I wonder,
Will the world ever be any saner,”
Said one, “than when He placed us here
In our indifferent century!”

And many a skeleton shook his head.
“Instead of preaching for forty years,”
My neighbor Parson Thirdly said,
“I wish I had just stuck to pipes and beer.”

Again the guns interrupted the hour,
Roaring their readiness for revenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starry Stonehenge.

April 1914.

(Lines on the loss of the “Titanic”)

I

In the solitude of the sea
Far from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that created her, she rests quietly.

II

Steel chambers, once the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents weave, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III

Over the mirrors meant
To reflect the opulent
The sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimy, dumb, indifferent.

p. 10IV

Jewels created for joy
To captivate the senses
Lie dull, all their sparkles faded and dark and blind.

V

Dim, moon-eyed fish nearby
Stare at the shiny equipment
And ask, “What’s with all this showiness down here?” . . .

VI

Well: while I was creating
This creature with split wings,
The Immanent Will that moves and drives everything

VII

Prepared a creepy partner
For her—so brightly grand—
A Form of Ice, for the time distant and disconnected.

VIII

And as the sleek ship got bigger
In size, elegance, and color,
In the quiet distance, the Iceberg grew as well.

p. 11IX

Alien they seemed to be:
No human eye could see
The close connection of their later history,

X

Or sign that they were bent
By paths that met
On being soon twin halves of one grand event,

XI

Till the Spinner of the
Years
Said “Now!” And everyone hears,
And everything comes together, shaking two halves of the world.

We two shared a home, the Past and I,
The Past and I;
I took care of things while it lingered close,
Never leaving me alone.
It was a ghostly kind of housekeeping
Where no harsh sounds intrude,
As strange and silent a housekeeping
As has ever been experienced.

As I went up and down the stairs every day,
I didn't care about the past there—
The present used to mean so much to me;
I wished that its gentle company
would always be around,
There was something ecstatic about that company.

It stayed with me just like it was,
Just like it was
When its future first made me stop
In my aimless wandering,
p. 13Before the years had broken old promises
Like they break all sweet things,
Before deep sorrows had broken old promises
And faded old joys.

And then its shape started to disappear,
   Started to disappear,
Its soft echoes played more faintly
   In the evenings on my ear
Than when autumn’s appearance darkened
   The empty rooms around here,
The settling autumn shadows darkened
   The corners it used to haunt nearby.

And so over time my sight fades,
Yeah, less and less
Turns that Past into my housemaster,
It shrinks in my view;
It appears as a distant ghost
And no companion near,
A restless distant ghost
Fading as the days go on.

Come back to the place
Where your presence was like a leaf that glides
Down a dry path that dulls
   The bloom on the traveler’s face.

Come again, with the feet
That were light on the grass like a dandelion seed,
And those silent acts of kindness to everyone
   Beyond what words can express sweetly.

Until then, the faint scent
Of the bordering flowers drifted away unnoticed,
And I didn't pay attention to the beauty in the changes of day
As the colors of the clouds shifted and changed.

Through the dark corridors
Your walk was so quiet I couldn't tell
Your shape from a ghost's from long ago
Said to move across the ancient floors,

p. 15Until you stepped out of the shade,
And I noticed your bright, vibrant eyes
Staring at me with a curious gaze,
Like those of a soul that was contemplating,

Scarce aware,
The age-old question of what Life is,
And why we exist, and under whose odd rules
That which mattered most couldn't be.

Whether to venture out and see you, girl of my dreams,
Or whether to stay
And not see you at all! How huge the difference feels
Between Yes and No
Right now. Yet this same sun will angle its rays
In not too long
On our two graves, and then what will the difference mean!

Yet I will see you, dear maiden, and make
   The most of what
Is left to us in this Cimmerian thicket
Through which we feel our way, and from whose thorns we hurt,
   While we still look
Around our weak, shaky progress for some path or plan.

p. 17With a quick encounter, something is definitely gained;
It will have happened:
Neither God nor Demon can change what's done,
Can't unsee what’s seen,
Can't turn silent music back to where it started,
Even though earthly things
Struggle in their chains until they fade away.

So, to that epic symphony
   From ancient times
Until now, of human compassion, shall we
   Contribute one note,
Small and unnoticed, yet that will always be
   Somewhere out there
Among the stars, as part of the cure for life’s struggles.

I

Sinking down by the gate, I see the thin moon,
And a blackbird goes through old songs in the pine,
But the moon is weak, and the bird's song is sad,
Because this place is unfamiliar to my Heartmate.

II

Did my Heartmate but haunt here at times like now,
The song would be joyful and bright in the moon;
But she will never see this gate, path, or branch,
Nor will I find any joy in the scene or the tune.

Once more the cauldron of the sun
smears the bookcase with a wine-red hue,
and here’s my page, and there’s my bed,
and the shadows of the apple tree move along.
Soon their fleeting path will be done,
and dusk will take hold
and they will be gone.

Yes: now the boiling ball is gone,
And I've wasted another day . . .
But wasted—wasted, do I say?
Is it a waste to have imagined one
Beyond those hills, who, soon,
   My great deeds done
   Will be mine forever?

When I left for Lyonnesse,
   A hundred miles away,
   The frost was on the spray,
And starlight illuminated my loneliness
When I left for Lyonnesse
   A hundred miles away.

What would happen at Lyonnesse
While I stay there
No prophet would dare say,
Nor did the smartest wizard predict
What would happen at Lyonnesse
While I stay there.

When I returned from Lyonnesse
   With magic in my eyes,
   No one could guess
What my godlike glory meant,
When I returned from Lyonnesse
   With magic in my eyes.

She wore a new “terra-cotta” dress,
And we stayed, because of the pouring storm,
Inside the hansom’s dry shelter,
Even though the horse had stopped; yes, motionless
We sat on, cozy and warm.

Then the downpour stopped, to my intense sadness,
And the glass that had protected us before
Flew up, and out she jumped to her door:
I would have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted just another minute.

I

I ripped your letter into strips
No larger than the light feathers
That ducks fluff out in changing weather
On the moving tips of the ripples.

II

In the dark on my bed alone
I felt like I could see you in a vision,
And hear you say: “Why this mockery
Of someone who is drawn to you, even though I’m a stranger?”

III

Yes, Eve’s quick mood had run its course,
The night had cooled my impulsive madness;
I was filled with a regretful sadness
Which deepened into true remorse.

p. 23IV

I wondered what thoughtful, enduring days
a soul must experience with such tender grain,
how much goodness must bless the sender
of such sweet words in such bright phrases.

V

Uprising then, as things were unvalued
I looked for each piece, fixed and stitched;
The midnight brightened before I had finished
And collected words I had given up.

VI

But some, unfortunately, of those I tossed
Were beyond my reach, gone forever:
They were your name and location; and never
Did I find those leads to you again.

VII

I realized I had overlooked, in my reckless disregard,
My path; that, as fate determined,
In life and death, we would be separated,
And feeling that hurt me deeply.

p. 24VIII

That longing for you, which started long ago,
Pulses on; I could never move past it.
What a revenge, if you only knew!
But thankfully, you do not know.

I

While rain, with nightfall in partnership,
came down heavily, drip, drip, drip,
beyond the last lonely lamp I passed
   walking slowly, whispering sadly,
   two linked wanderers, pale, downcast:
some deep thought weighed on each face,
and blinded them to time and place.

II

The couple looked like they were in love, but they were lost
In thoughts no longer lit
By the vibrant glow of young love. Each face
As it slowly, as it sadly
Caught the lamp’s yellow light
Displayed a lingering sorrow
About things that had happened or could happen.

p. 26III

When I walked back down that wet path
A few hours past sunset,
I still saw them walking there
   Just as slowly, just as sadly,
   Unmindful of the night and rain.
One could only wonder who they were
And what deep sorrow kept them there.

IV

Though thirty years of haze and smudge
Have passed since I saw that place,
And watched in strange conversation there
Moving slowly, moving sadly
That mysterious tragic couple,
Its old appearance may still remain—
All but the couple; they are gone.

V

Whither? Who knows, really... And yet
To me, when the nights are strange and rainy,
Without those friends meeting me there
Creeping slowly, creeping sadly,
That lonely path doesn't exist.
There they seem to dwell on their pain,
And will, as long as that path remains.

If ever joy leaves
A lasting pain of sorrow,
So it happened on the next day
   Of that May evening . . .

The setting sun sank
To the northwest, lower and lower,
The pony’s trot slowed down,
And then we stopped.

“This cozy house just by
I must stop at for a minute,
A sick man lies inside it
Who will soon die.

“He wants to marry me,
So I feel obligated, when I pass by him,
To ask, even just to lift his spirits,
   How he’s doing.”

p. 28A message was sent in,
And silently we waited,
Until someone arrived and announced
   The news.

And the person in pain said,
No words could thank her for her help;
He must consider her an angel
   Until the end of his life.

Slowly we drove away,
When I turned my head, though not
Called; why I turned, I still don’t know
Even to this day.

And look, there in my sight
Pressed against an upper window
Was a white face, staring at us
   As we left.

And I figured out well
That it was the man dying there,
Who just a short time ago had been sighing
For the promise he made to her.

Then I stooped to a terrible act;
It happened before I even realized it;
What demon prompted me to do it
I can't say!

p. 29Yes, while he looked up,
I put my arm around her
So he could see, and not doubt her
   My promised Love.

The pale face disappeared quickly,
As if blown away, from the window,
And my shame and self-doubt
Started to sting.

And they keep pushing on, nonstop,
For that sting in Love’s intense way
Which, lacking the fire of a lover’s passion,
   Was unfamiliar to me.

She smiled at my touch,
But why did the gentle embrace
Of her shoulder happen then
She didn't understand.

Long years he has lain
In your garden, O sorrowful Saint Cleather:
What tears there, exposed to the elements,
Will wash away that stain!

Love is patient, bold,
Sweet, quick, precious like a gem;
But oh, Love can be harsh,
Harsh as the tomb.

I play my sweet old tunes—
The tunes he knew
When our love was real—
But he doesn’t hesitate
His steady stride,
And walks up the stairs.

I sing my songs again,
And soon I hear
His footsteps coming near
As if he will stay;
But he goes on his way,
And closes a distant door.

So I wait for another morning
And another night
In this soul-sick situation;
And I wonder a lot
As I sit, why was I born
A woman like this!

My spirit won't haunt the mound
Above my chest,
But will travel, filled with memories,
To where my sensitive self found
Life's greatest and best.

My ghostly figure will leave
When night settles in
Here and there along the paths
I and someone else used to know
In the old days.

And there you’ll find me, if at all
   You still care
About me and my curious vibe;
If not, then I won’t be,
   There for you.

There are some high points in Wessex, shaped as if by a gentle hand
for thinking, dreaming, and reflecting on life, and at moments when I pause,
like on Ingpen Beacon to the east, or Wylls-Neck to the west,
I feel connected to where I was before I was born, and where I might be after death.

In the lowlands, I have no friend, not even the lone man's companion—
Her who is patient and kind; accepts what he is too weak to fix:
Down there, they are skeptical and judgmental; no one thinks like I do,
But mind-chains don’t rattle where the sky is your nearest neighbor.

In the towns, I'm followed by ghosts with strange detective techniques—
Shadows of people who used to be in my life:
p. 33They linger in places and say harsh, weighty things—
Men with a cold sneer, and women with sharp criticisms.

Down there, I feel like I'm not being true to myself, my simple self from before,
Who is no longer here, and I notice him watching, curious about what foolish
Reason could have transformed him into such a strange continuation as this,
Who still shares something in common with him, my chrysalis.

I can't go to the vast gray Plain; there’s a shape against the moon,
Nobody sees it but me, and it makes my heart race out of sync;
I can't go to the tall-spired town, being shut out by the things that have now moved on
For everyone but me, in whose long view they remain.

There’s a ghost at Yell’ham Bottom scolding loudly as night falls,
There’s a ghost in Froom-side Vale, with thin lips and an unclear shape, wrapped in white,
There’s one on the train whenever I wish it wouldn’t be around,
I see its outline against the window, saying what I refuse to hear.

p. 34As for one rare beautiful woman, I am now just a passing thought in her mind,
I come to her mind and another thought takes my place that she likes more;
Yet my love for her, in all its depth, she never even realized;
Well, time heals tender hearts, and now I can let her go.

So here I am on Ingpen Beacon, or at Wylls-Neck to the west,
Or maybe on familiar Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest,
Where men have never bothered to go, and women haven’t walked with me,
And the ghosts keep their distance; and I feel some freedom.

I

I gonna rot here, with those you never knew in their time,
      And strangers who, before they turned to dust,
      Never caught my eye,
Will forever be close to you in your distant grave.

II

No shadow from a peak, tree, or tower,
      While the earth lasts,
   Will cast itself on my grave and within the hour
      Move on to yours;
One robin will never linger in our two green hides.

III

Some organ might play on Sunday afternoons
By where you rest,
Some other sound might fill the windows with different tunes
While I decay;
No identical chords create our shared lullaby.

p. 36IV

The straightforward memorial at my head
      Might take
   A Gothic shape, and the one above your bed
      Could be Greek in style;
No connecting symbol will be shown there for the sake of our story.

V

And in the endless struggles
      of stressed, hard-working Humanity,
   The unbreakable bond that connects us both as one
      No one will notice
Extending across the distance that separates you from me.

I

I look at the map that hangs beside me—
Its counties and towns and rivers drawn in glossy
artistry—
And I see a protruding hill
Colored purple, with a border of blue sea.

II

—It was a day in late summer, hot and dry;
Yeah, even the waves felt dry as we walked, she and I,
By this spot where, calmly enough,
She told me what would happen soon.

III

This hanging map shows the coast and place,
And brings back our surprising, difficult situation
Clearly to my view,
And her tension, and the look on her face.

p. 38IV

Weeks and weeks we had loved under that bright blue sky,
which had forgotten how to rain, just like her eyes today,
while she spoke, as if by magic,
piercing our sky with beams of red light.

V

For the awe and the bitterness of it all
Was that what, in the world of reason, would have delighted our two souls
   Shone with a hot, tragic glow
Under the strict control of order.

VI

So, the map brings back her words, the place, the time,
And the thing we realized we had to confront before the next year’s peak;
The mapped coast shines brightly,
And its story returns in a silent play.

Where we made the fire,
In the summer,
Of branches and thorns
On the hill by the sea
I slowly climb
Through winter mud,
And look around and explore
The deserted spot
Quite easily.

Now a cold wind blows,
And the grass is gray,
But the spot still shows
As a burnt circle—yeah,
And charred stick ends,
Still scatter the ground
Where I stand,
Last reminder of the group
Who came that day!

p. 40Yes, I’m here
Just like last year,
And the sea smells salty
From its odd straight line
Up here, the same
As when the four of us came.
—But two have drifted far
From this grassy hill
Into the city noise
Where there are no picnics,
And one—has closed her eyes
Forever.

Far away, as if it were just a play of feelings and fancy;
Now that its lean and lonely shape shines
In my approaching view, it feels less like
A towering mountain and more like a mask of him
Who risked everything to climb its peak,
Driven perhaps by unclear dreams
Of a resemblance to his character
In its strange shadows, bright spots, and rough edges.

At his final transition, when the tedious twists of life come undone,
Will he, in nostalgia, make his way here,
And the everlasting core of his thoughts
Enter this solid and unyielding form,
And his quiet voice linger on its fading snows
When the dawn that summons the climber colors them pink?

I

In this beautiful spot above the constantly awake sea,
That keeps watch all night and all day,
From cove to cliff, from headland to bay,
The Fates have rightly decreed that he should be Resting forever.

II

—It was like a bunch of red roses
Had fallen around the hood of some self-satisfied nun
When carelessly dropped from the sun,
In a mess of numbers mixed with musical endings,
Upon Victoria’s neat middle time
   His leaves of rhythm and rhyme.

III

O that distant morning of a summer day
When, down a sloped street where the pavements were
p. 43Reflecting the sunshine into my narrowed eyes,
I walked and read with a quick, happy surprise
New words, in a classic style,—

IV

The intense chapters of his youth,
Filled with deep sighs, bittersweet laughter, kisses, tears;
Bright melodic notes, yet from a musician who
Played them not innocently, but as one who understood
   Full well why he played them.

V

I can still hear the chatter and the noise
From your melodies, O silent one, now gone
That restless fire of voices has moved on!
Their strength is gone like spray on this beach;
Yours continues to grow and grow.

VI

—His singing teacher was truly no other
Than she from Lesbos, the mother of music
For all the tribe that feels in melodies;
Who jumped, filled with love, from the Leucadian cliff
Into the swirling, all-encompassing deep
That hides her where no one sees.

p. 44VII

And one can imagine that at night
His ghost might come down to the edge of the water,
And hers might rise to meet it, like a faint
Lonely glow on the rolling sea,
And sailors marvel as they sail close by,
Unaware of her and him.

VIII

One dreams of him sighing to her ghostly figure:
“O teacher, where is your hidden passion;
Where are those songs, O divine poetess
Whose very art is love made flesh?”
And she smiles back: “True and devoted student,
What you have is already enough.” . . .

IX

So here, beneath the waking stars,
Where the waves echo their endless rhythms,
And their dull underground reverberations
Shake him when storms turn flatlands into mountains—
Him, once their equal in sorrowful improvisations,
And as skilled as the wind in slicing through their frothy manes—
I leave him as the daylight fades
Upon the capes and ridges.

Bonchurch, 1910.

When you slowly came out of the lair of Time,
And became aware as you developed,
And took on form from formless slime,

Where did the unfortunate need to create me come from, O Man—
A form like yours—for you to pray to?

My virtue, strength, usefulness,
Must all reside within my creator,
Since I can never have any of them myself,

One thin like a silhouette on a lantern slide
Displayed in the dark on some faint sheet,
And brought to life by no one but its showman.

“Such a forced device,” you might say, “is suitable
For easing a heavy heart at times:
A person needs to imagine a place of mercy

p. 46Somewhere above the dark aisles
Of this sorrowful world, or he couldn’t stand
The annoyance that no local hope tricks.”

—But since I was caught in your initial despair
Living without me hasn’t had any effect
On the thoughts of men when shadows frighten;

And now that I fade a little more each day
Under the god-killing gaze of those who see
In a light that won't let me remain,

And tomorrow, the whole of me will be gone,
The truth needs to be told, and we should acknowledge
That this should have been faced in earlier years:

The reality of life is that dependence is based
On the human heart's resources alone,
In close-knit brotherhood, blessed and embraced.

With love and kindness fully expressed,
And help envisioned, unasked, unknown.

1909–10.

I

I saw a train moving slowly—
With furrowed brows, deep-set eyes, and stooped, gray heads—
Marching in lines across a dimly lit plain
A strange and mysterious figure led the way.

II

And through shared feelings of thought
Or hidden knowledge that was inside me
And had already moved me, I was brought
To awareness of sorrow just like they were.

III

The shape ahead, to my blurred eyes,
At first looked human, then suddenly changed
Into a massive, shapeless cloud,
At times possessing glorious wings.

p. 48IV

And this ghostly variety
Always had it while they moved along:
Yet through it all, it still symbolized
Great power and strong love.

V

Almost before I realized it, I leaned
Towards the moving columns without saying a word;
They, increasing in size and number as they moved, Elicited troubling thoughts that could be sensed:—

VI

“O man-made Figure, recently
Imagined like us, who will hear your death knell?
Where did the temptation to create come from
Someone we can no longer keep alive?

VII

“Portraying him as jealous, intense at first,
We granted him justice as time went on,
A wish to bless those whom fate has cursed,
And patience, along with countless mercies."

p. 49VIII

“And, fooled by our own early dream
And need for comfort, we became self-deceived,
We soon thought our creation was our creator,
And what we had imagined, we accepted as truth.”

IX

“Until, in Time’s
constant, secret movement,
Harsh, unyielding reality
Ripped apart the Monarch of our creation,
Who trembled, fell; and now no longer exists.

X

“So, toward our myth’s oblivion,
Darkling, and languid-lipped, we creep and grope
Sadder than those who wept in Babylon,
Whose Zion was a lasting hope.

XI

“How sweet it was in years long past
To begin the day with hopeful prayer,
To lie down peacefully in the evening
And feel the blessed assurance that he was there!

p. 50XII

“And who or what will take his place?
Where will lost people look with anxious eyes
For a constant guide to quicken their steps
Toward the goal of their journey?” . . .

XIII

Some in the background then I saw,
Sweet women, young people, men, all in disbelief,
Who chimed in unison: “This figure is made of straw,
This funeral is a joke! Still, he lives for us!”

XIV

I couldn’t support their faith:
and yet
Many I had known: I felt for all of them;
And even though I was left speechless, I didn’t forget
That what they mourned for, I had once valued too.

XV

Still, how to handle such loss I thought The nagging question for every living mind, And looking closely, to my widening view there appeared A faint but definite light low down behind,

p. 51XVI

Wherever to lift the general night,
A few who kept their distance had said,
“Do you see that small light on the horizon—
Is it getting a bit brighter?” Each mourner shook his head.

XVII

And they formed a crowd of
Some who were really good, and many almost the best . . .
Feeling dazed and confused between the light and shadow
I automatically followed along with the others.

1908–1910.

“It is not death that troubles us,” they said,
“The silent cell is a relief in itself,
For life is an unprotected flower, stunned and stunted
When caught off guard, and at its best only short-lived.”

The speakers, various ghosts of the past,
Had risen like wispy flames of glowing light,
As if the faintest sheet lightning shone
From the ground beside me, as from an underworld sky.

And I was very surprised that, exhausted and lifeless,
They should not, like so many others, be at peace,
But wander like ghosts; so I said,
“Why, after leaving life, do you return troubled?”

“We are among the few groups facing death and not free,
The hurt, misunderstood names, who come
p. 53At each year’s edge, and shout to History
To give them justice, or move on without acknowledging them.”

“We are stripped of rights; our shames remain unaddressed,
Our actions are not fully revealed,
Our words are expressed only in fragments
On the written page, our motives hidden and unknown.”

Then all these shaken and dismissed visitors sped
Into the unknown, leaving me thinking there about stories that could relate to what they had said,
until the New Year’s dawn broke across the sky.

“Ah, are you digging on my grave
My loved one?—planting rue?”
—“No: yesterday he went to marry
One of the richest beauties around.
‘It won’t hurt her now,’ he said,
‘That I should not be faithful.’”

“Then who is digging at my grave?
My closest relatives?”
—“Ah, no; they just sit and think, ‘What’s the point!
What good will planting flowers do?
No care for her grave can set
Her spirit free from Death’s trap.’”

“But someone is digging on my grave?
My enemy?—sneaky and probing?”
—“No: when she heard you had crossed the Gate
That closes on everyone eventually,
She figured you weren’t worth her hate anymore,
And doesn’t care where you are.”

p. 55“Then, who’s digging on my grave?
Tell me—since I can’t figure it out!”
—“Oh, it’s me, my dear mistress,
Your little dog, who’s still close by,
And I really hope my digging here
Hasn’t disturbed your peace?”

“Ah, yes! You dig upon my grave . . .
Why didn’t it occur to me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To match among humankind
A dog’s loyalty!”

“Hey, I was digging at your grave
To bury a bone, just in case
I got hungry around here
When I pass by on my daily run.
I’m sorry, but I totally forgot
This was your resting place.”

The kettle hums in a warm, comfortable sound,
And the young wife glances at her husband,
Then at her guest, and reveals in her expression
That she knows she occupies a coveted spot;
And the visiting lady is glowing,
And says there has never been a room as lovely.

And the happy young housewife doesn't know
That the woman next to her was his first choice,
Until fate decided it couldn't be that way . . .
Showing nothing in her expression or tone
The guest sits smiling and drinks her tea,
And he throws her a fleeting glance filled with longing.

And now to God the Father,” he finishes,
And his voice resonates to the highest tiles:
Each listener feels a lump in their throat as he bows and bends,
And emotion fills the packed aisles.
Then the preacher moves to the vestry door,
Closes it, and believes he is out of sight.

The door swings open softly, meanwhile,
And one of his students in the Bible class,
Who adores him for being genuine and sincere,
Sees her idol standing with a satisfied smile
And mimicking in front of the vestry mirror
Every gesture from the pulpit in skillful silence
That had inspired the congregation so.

“Sixpence a week,” the girl tells her boyfriend,
“Aunt used to give it to me because she could trust
Me more than anyone else, she promised. It was to cover
The expense of her headstone when she passed away.
That was a year ago last June;
I still haven’t taken care of it. But I need to soon.”

“And where is the money now, my dear?”
“Oh, safely in my purse... Aunt took her time saving it—about eighty weeks or so.” . . .
“Let's spend it,” he suggests. “She won’t find out.
There’s a dance tonight at the Load of Hay.”
She quietly agrees. And they go that way.

“Would it have been the man we wanted!”
Sighs her mother. To whom she passionately
In the wedding dress—the bride-to-be—
“Then why were you so hesitant
Not to insist on him for me!”
The mother, surprised: “Why, my dear,
Because you asked for this one or none!”

“But Father, you both should have stood firm!
Since then, I've realized the hard way
That you were right and I was wrong;
This guy is a fool when it comes to the one who turned him down . . .
Ah!—here he comes with his boutonnière rose.
Good God—I guess I have to marry him!”

They sit and smoke on the walkway,
The man and his friend, and look at the bay
Where the distant chalk cliffs, shown on the left,
Smile faintly as the day fades.
And strollers go by with laughter and jokes—
A good-looking couple among them.

“That smart proud couple,” the man says to his friend,
“Are getting married next week . . . How little he knows
That for countless days and nights
I have caressed her neck, unfastened the links
Of her sleeve to touch her upper arm . . .
Well, bliss is in ignorance: what’s the harm!”

“You see those mothers arguing over there?”
Says the man at the cemetery.
One is crying, “My loved one is buried here!”
Another retorts, “No, it’s mine, you hypocrite!”
Another chimes in, “How dare you move my flowers
And put your own on this grave of ours!”
But all their children were buried there
At different times, like sprats in a can.

“And then the main drain had to be crossed,
And we moved the lot a few nights ago,
And packed them away in the common pit
With hundreds more. But their families don’t know,
And it’s just as pointless to cry over a newly laid drain
As anything else, to ease your pain!”

“My stick!” he exclaims, turning in the path
To the house he just left, where a sharp voice
Streams out with the glow of the fire through the window,
And he sees that the girl he likes
Is scolding her mother with glaring eyes
For something mentioned while he was there.

“At last I see her soul laid bare!”
Thinks the man who loved her more than himself;
“My God—I've just barely escaped.—
My delicate porcelain proves it.”
His face has flushed like someone embarrassed,
And he slips away, leaving his stick behind.

He enters, and silently on the edge of a chair
Sits a thin-faced woman, a stranger here,
A kind of faded elegance;
And by some small clues he can easily tell
That she comes to him nearly without breakfast.

“I’ve called—I hope I’m not mistaken—
I’m looking for someone to buy
Some twenty volumes of the works
Of famous theologians I have,—
Left to me by my father—though it annoys
My patience to sell them.” And she smiles
As if necessity were just a foreign concept;
“But the truth is that often
I’ve wished, since I love art,
To make my rooms a bit more stylish.”
And lightly still she laughs at him,
As if selling were just a fun idea,
And that, to be honest, Life for her
Is not bitter and harsh,
But fresh and sweet; and Need
Is not a household burden at all.

“My bride isn’t coming, oh no!” says the groom,
And the telegram trembles in his hand. “I admit
It was rushed! We met at a dance hall
When I went to the Cattle Show by myself,
And then, the next night, where the Fountain shoots up,
And the Street of the Quarter-Circle curves.”

“Yeah, she convinced me to ask her to be my wife—
Maybe it was a bit foolish!—to leave behind the nightlife
Of the bustling city for a farmer’s life.
She agreed. And we made plans. Now she says:
‘It’s sweet of you, honey, to make a home for me,
But a fast, short, exciting life is what I prefer.
You’ve never really understood who I am;
I had bitten the apple before you were even a toddler.’”

“O that mastering tune?” And up in the bed
Like a lace-robed ghost springs the bride;
“And why?” asks the man she just married,
Startled, as the band plays on outside.
“It’s the townsfolk’s cheerful compliment
Because of our marriage, my Innocent.”

“O but you don’t know! It’s the passionate vibe
That my old Love danced with me to,
And I promised as we twirled that no one would share
My home, my kisses, until death, except him!
And he controls me and excites me completely,
And it’s him I hold while I hold you!”

“But listen. If you stay and the child is born,
It will be accepted as your husband’s like the others,
But if we run away, the backlash
Will shine down on us from all directions;
And the child will arrive as a life looked down upon;
I really think running away is a bad idea!”

“O you don’t realize what it means, my dear,
To a woman! Daily and hourly worries
Lest the truth should be revealed. How can I stay here,
And hold him in my arms every night?
Come to the child with no name or recognition,
Let us go, and confront it, and endure the shame.”

“I stood at the back of the shop, my dear,
But you didn’t notice me.
Well, when they deliver what you were shown
I won’t know anything about it, trust me!”

And he kept coughing as she turned pale and said,
   “Oh, I didn’t see you come in there—
Why couldn’t you say something?”—“Well, I didn’t. I left
   So that you wouldn’t notice I was there.

“You were looking at some beautiful things.  ‘Soon needed
   For a widow, of the latest style’;
And I knew it would upset you to meet the guy
   Who had to be indifferent and pale."

“And locked in a box before they could dress you
   ‘In the last new note in mourning,’
As they called it. So, not to upset you,
   I left you to your decorating.”

I will tell—having given up on any hope—
Then I’ll just die . . . He was away at war,
And caught wind of the closeness
That was developing between her and me;
So he snuck back home and showed up like a ghost
One night, almost exactly
When I arrived at her place. Well, I shot him dead,
And buried him quietly. Nothing was said.

“The news of the battle came the next day;
He was reported missing. I rushed out,
Went to the field,
And sent word home that a search showed
He was among the dead; although, lying alone
And stripped, his body had not been identified."

“But she had a feeling. I lost her love,
Yeah, my hope for this world and the Heaven above;
And my time has come, and I’ll face the consequences,
Even if it means burning forever.”

They stand facing each other, the coffin in between,
His old wife and his new wife,
And the dead man they both belonged to
Seems to be listening from a distance, like to things long gone.
—“I have called,” says the first.  “Are you surprised or not?”
“In truth,” says the second, “I am—kind of.”

“Well, I have something to say! ...
I divorced that man because of you—
I felt I had to do it, so I did;
But now that I'm older, I’ll be honest,
Because life is short, and he’s gone;
I wish I had just left you two alone!
And both of us, rejecting narrow views,
Could have lived like the wives in ancient times.”

“O isolated worker, standing there
In a dream, why do you keep staring
At her grave, as if it were the only one?”

“If your big, hollow eyes are so eager
To reach her soul by the light of this cold, dead moon,
Maybe you’ll bring her ghost to life soon!”

"Why, fool, it’s what I’d rather see
Than all the living people there are;
But unfortunately, there’s no such joy for me!"

“Ah—she was someone you loved, no doubt,
Through good times and bad, through rain and drought,
And when she left, all your light went out?”

"Actually, she was the woman I didn't love,
Who all the others were better than,
Who, while she was alive, I thought nothing of."

Along the way
He walked that day,
Looking at the shapes that dreams create,
And rarely did he
Have eyes to see
The moment that surrounded him.

Bright yellowhammers
Made cheerful noises,
And picked up long grasses with an energetic vibe,
And carrying their load
Flew up the road
That he followed, alone, without any interest there.

From bank to ground
And over and around
They crept along the nearby hedge;
Sometimes to the gutter
Their yellow flutter
Would dip from the closest slate ledge.

p. 78The calm shoreline
With a shiny surface,
And glimpses of white, and a sail up ahead,
He would also see
With a half-closed eye
Amid the plans he pondered.

Yes, surrounding him were these
Earth’s creations,
But flashy schemes that answered his call
Took up most of
His journey,
While he didn’t see himself at all.

Dead now like fragments
Are the yellow birds,
And all that mattered has gone;
Yet God, the Elf,
Now reveals himself
As he was, and should have been shown, that day.

O it would have been good
If he could have stood
At a focused distance and taken it all in,
But now such vision
Is just mockery,
Neither soothing his body nor saving his soul.

p. 79Not much, some might
Be inclined to say,
To see it all, if it had all been seen.
But no! he knows
There was something there
That appeared with an eternal presence.

I roamed to a rough coastline
      Like a ghost;
   On the hills, I saw fires—
      Funeral pyres
   It seemed—and heard crashing
Waves like distant cannon fire that shook the land.

And so I never once guessed
      A love nest,
   Hidden away and candle-lit, was there
      In my path,
   Until I discovered a secret spot,
Where I couldn't help but let my heart follow her.

“It is a foolish thing,” I said,
“To put up with this and let it slide;
Yet here I am, I can't explain why!”

And with every conflict, I would guess
That if I had done things differently
I could have saved myself a lot of sighs.

But now the only happiness
In looking back that I have—
Whose absence would leave me uneasy—

Is to remember that I held back
From skills I could have mastered,
And for my patience, I was looked down on;

For look, a grave. And if it had
I had stooped and shattered, I wouldn't dare
To hang out in the shadows there.

I

Searching forward to the spring
You can get through anything.
On this February day,
Even though the winds are howling down the street,
The cold feels more like a game,
And this later ice and sleet
—Sharper than the earlier stuff—
And this later snow—the worst—
Are like a sheer curtain
Full of light from the sun behind.

II

Shadows from the October pine
Fill up this room of mine:
On the pine, there’s a bird;
He’s shadowed by the tree.
Quietly perched, he doesn’t say a word;
Just as blank as I am, so is he.
Because those joyful days are gone,
Foreseen in last winter’s dawn.
When did their joy slip away?
I, unfortunately, didn’t notice when.

The ten hours’ light is fading,
And a late bird flies by,
Where the pines, like dancers waiting,
Toss their dark heads high.

Beech leaves, that turn yellow at noon,
Float by like particles in the eye;
I planted every tree in my summer,
And now they block the sky.

And the kids who wander through here
Think that there has never been
A time when no tall trees stood here,
A time when none will be seen.

How do you know that the pilgrim path
Along the shining zodiac
Moved by the sun in its apparent circles
Is now marked by the Fishes’ limits
And into the Ram, when weeks of clouds
Have covered the sky in a damp shroud,
And still not a hint of spring
Has appeared in the Earth’s clothing;
O evening bird, how do you know,
How do you know?

How do you know, deep underground,
Hidden in your bed from sight and sound,
Without any change in temperature,
In weather that life can barely take,
That light has gained a little strength,
And day has gained a few moments' length,
Of which, in sheer habit, will come,
Weeks later, gentle breezes that don't numb;
O crocus root, how do you know,
How do you know?

February 1910.

“Whenever I dive my arm in like this,
Into a basin of water, I always feel
The sweet, sharp sense of a fleeting day
Brought back from its deepening layer of gray.
So the only true
And real love rhyme
That I know by heart,
And that causes no pain,
Is the sound of a small valley waterfall
About three spans wide and two spans tall
Over a table of solid rock,
And into a scoop of the same block;
The flow of a stream that never stops
Through kingdoms, in wars, in peace;
With a hollow, bubbling voice it speaks
And has been talking since hills were bare peaks.”

“And why does this give you the only key
To what a true love rhyme can be?
And why does sticking your arm in a bowl
Full of spring water, make your soul feel whole?”

p. 86“Well, beneath the waterfall, in a crevice of the stone,
Though no one knows exactly where it has grown,
Stuck in darkness, hidden and prized,
Now smooth and opal-like, it's no longer disguised,
   Is a drinking glass:
   For, through that pass
   My lover and I
   Walked under a sky
Of blue, with leaves providing a green shade,
In the heat of August, to capture the glade,
And we set our basket of fruit and wine
By the stream’s edge, where we stopped to dine;
And when we had sipped from the glass together,
Sheltered by the oak grove from the weather,
I held the cup to rinse in the fall,
Where it slipped from my grip, sank, and was lost to recall,
Though we bent down and searched the small abyss
With our arms stretched long. There the glass still is.
And, as I said, if I plunge my arm below
Into cold water in a basin or bowl, a shiver
From the past brings back that moment in time,
And the glass we used, along with the waterfall's rhyme.
The basin feels like the pool, and its edge
The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge,
And the leafy pattern of china-ware
The hanging plants that were refreshing there.
p. 87By night,
By day, whether it shines or clouds,
There remains that chalice of ours, unbowed,
And its presence adds to the rhyme of love
Forever echoed by the waterfall above.
No lip has touched it since his and mine
In turns enjoyed sweet lovers’ wine.”

“I mean to build a hall soon,
      And create two towers there,
      And a wide spiral staircase,
And a cool well for clear water;
   Yes; I will build a hall soon,
   Plant roses for love to thrive on,
      And apple trees and pear.”

He started to build the manor house,
And designed the towers there,
And the wide spiral staircase,
And the cool well for clear water;
He built that manor house for me,
And planted many trees too,
But no roses anywhere.

And since he never planted a
      rose that blooms with love,
      Though other flowers grew
A cold wind forced our hearts to break apart
   Since he never planted a rose;
   And misunderstandings created terrible scenes,
      And pain came from that.

p. 89“I’ll fix these troubles,” I said,
      And so, in the middle of the night,
      I went and, hidden from view,
That nothing would keep our souls apart,
   I planted a rose bush. “This,” I said,
   “Can end the painful separations,
      And the long days of suffering.”

But I was taken from this world—yes, taken
      Before my rosebush grew;
      And I wish I knew now
What he feels about the tree I planted,
   And whether, after I was taken
   To be a spirit, he, like before,
      Gave me his heart again!

Perhaps now blooms that queen of trees
      I planted but didn’t see grow,
      And he, beside its glow—
Eyes hidden by the misperceptions that clouded me—
   Yes, there beside that queen of trees
   He sees me as I was, but it’s
      Too late to tell me so!

Leave me alone, Time!
Once more I am getting close
To the castle and stronghold, rising
   Gray, just like in my youth.

At the inn
Smiling closely, why isn't it
Like it was during my visit
   When hope and I were inseparable?

Groom and jade
Whom I found here, molder;
Strange the tavern owner,
Strange the barmaid.

Here I hired
A horse and a man to carry
Me on my journey
To the place I wanted to go.

Evening darkened
As I moved ahead
Towards the faces by the shore,
   Until their place appeared.

p. 91If again
If I were to rush towards the Atlantic ocean again,
They would definitely be there
   Just like before? . . .

Why waste my thoughts,
When I know they're gone
Underground; yes, banished
   Forever into nothing.

Traces of the old flame

Why didn’t you give any hint that night
That right after tomorrow’s sunrise,
And so calmly, as if you didn’t care at all,
You would finish your time here, leave, and be gone
   To a place I couldn’t follow
   With the speed of a swallow
To catch even a glimpse of you now and then!

Never to say goodbye,
   Or give me the gentlest call,
Or say a word of hope, while I
Watched the morning set on the wall,
   Unmoved, unaware
   That your big departure
Changed everything in that moment.

Why do you make me leave the house
And think for a moment that it’s you I see
At the end of the alley with bending branches
Where you used to be so often at dusk;
   Until in the darkening dampness
   The wide emptiness
Of the view makes me feel sick!

p. 96You were the one who lived
By those red-veined rocks in the West,
You were the swan-necked person who rode
Along the steep Beeny Crest,
And, staying close to me,
Would think and gaze at me,
While Life offered us its very best.

Why didn’t we talk about it lately,
Didn’t we think about those long-gone days,
And before you disappeared, try to find
A way to bring that time back? We could have said,
“In this beautiful spring weather,
Let’s go visit together
Those places we once explored.”

Well, well! All that’s done
Can’t be changed. It has to go.
I feel like a dead man just hanging here
About to drop down soon . . . Oh, you could never know
That such quick escape
No one could see coming—
Not even me—would destroy me like this!

December 1912.

Here by the road by the moor you came back,
And saw the town lights ahead
That illuminated your face—all unrecognized
To be in a week the face of the dead,
And you talked about the magic of that glowing sight
That would never shine on you again.

And to your left, you passed the place
Where, eight days later, you would lie,
And be talked about as someone who was no longer here;
Glancing at it briefly,
As if it were foreign to you, although beneath its tree
You would soon stop forever.

I didn't drive with you . . . But if I had sat
Next to you that evening, I wouldn’t have noticed
That the face I was looking at
Had a final look in the flickering light,
Nor would I have understood the expression on your face,
"I'm leaving soon for my final resting place;

p. 98“You might miss me then. But I won't know
How often you come to see me there,
Or what you think, or if you ever go
There at all. And I won't care.
If you criticize me, I won’t pay attention
And even your compliments won’t matter to me.”

True: you’ll never know. And you won’t care.
But should I then overlook you because of that?
Dear ghost, in the past did you ever find
The thought “What’s the point?” ever bother me much?
Yet the fact still stands,
You are a memory of love, praise, indifference, blame.

Dec 1912.

You didn't walk with me
Recently to the hilltop tree
Along the gated paths,
Like we used to;
You were too weak and hurt,
So you never came,
And I went alone, and I didn't mind,
Not thinking of you as being left behind.

I walked up there today
Just like I did before:
Looked around
The familiar place
All by myself again:
What’s different, then?
Only that lingering feeling
Of how a room feels when you come back.

Clouds pour down on her
   Their waters in abundance
   With harsh disregard,—
She who not long ago
   Had trembled with pain
As if she felt dishonor
If such cold, direct
   Arrows of rain hit her.

She who seeks shelter
For her delicate head
Would hurry and hurry
With each cautious step
If drops happen to hit her
That summer spills
In dust-filled streams
When thunderclouds gather
And birds close their beaks.

I wish I could be there
And she could be here!
p. 101Or even better, we could both
Be tucked away together
Facing the same weather
We both—who would wander there
When it's sunny out,
Or in the clear evening
At the peak of the year.

Soon green blades will grow
From her mound,
And daisies will show
Like stars on the ground,
Until she becomes part of them—
Yeah—the sweet heart of them,
Loved beyond measure
With a child's pleasure
Throughout her life’s journey.

Jan. 31, 1913.

I found her out there
On a slope that few notice,
That drops towards the west
To the salty air,
Where the ocean crashes
On the purple shore,
And the hurricane rattles
The firm ground.

I brought her here,
And have laid her to rest
In a quiet spot
No ocean crashes nearby.
She will never be disturbed
In her earthy bed
By the waves I've long heard
And loved so much.

So she doesn’t sleep
By those haunted heights
The Atlantic crashes
And the blind winds blow,
p. 103Where she often would look
At Dundagel’s distant peak,
While the flickering flame
Dye her face bright red;

And would sigh at the story
Of sunken Lyonnesse,
As a wind-tugged strand
Hit her cheek like a flail;
Or listen sometimes
With a thoughtful brow
To the murmuring miles
She is far from now.

Yet her spirit, maybe,
Will sneak underground
Till it catches the sound
Of that western sea
As it swells and sobs
Where she once lived,
And finds joy in its beats
With the heart of a child.

It was your style, my dear,
To slip away without a word
When guests, friends, or family
Had left, and I rushed in
To join you, as I assumed.

And when you felt like heading
Off anywhere—let's say to town—
You were suddenly gone
Before I even realized it,
Or noticed your bags were packed.

So, now that you’re gone
Forever in that quick way,
Your meaning feels to me
Just like it always did:
“Good-bye isn’t worth it!”

How she would have loved
A party today!—
Bright-hatted and gloved,
With a table and tray
And chairs on the lawn
Her smiles would have shone
With warm welcomes . . . But
She is shut, she is shut
   From friendship’s magic
   In the confining shell
   Of her tiny cell.

Or she would have ruled
At a dinner tonight
With genuine passion,
And a joyful spirit;
All in her home
She would have freely given
To her guests . . . But sadly,
She is buried under earth
Where no drinks pour,
Unable to understand
That it could have been so.

p. 106And she would have looked
With a child's eager eyes
For the shy snowdrops arriving
With the new year’s approach,
And gazed into the frost
Of Candlemas-time
For crocuses . . . if only
She weren't caught up
In the things she loved most;
Entirely consumed
By an endless peace!

And we’re here hanging out
Among these dull things
That don’t care about having fun,
And those parties
That used to make her happy,
And never bored her
Like they bore us! . . . But
She is shut off, she is shut off
From their joy, lifeless
To everything done and said
In a yew-arched bed.

He doesn’t believe that I visit here every night:
How can I let him know
That wherever his imagination takes him
I, too, am there, watching?—
I hover a few feet away from him
Just like I used to,
But I can’t respond to his words meant for me—
I can only listen!

When I could respond, he didn’t say those words:
When I could let him know
How I wanted to join him on his travels,
He rarely wanted to go.
Now that he goes and wants me to join him
More than he ever did,
He never sees my loyal presence
Even though he talks to it.

Yes, I go with him to places
Only dreamers know,
Where the shy hares take long steps,
Where the night rooks go;
p. 108Into old aisles where the past is everything to him,
Close as his shadow can get,
Always lacking the ability to call to him,
As close as I can reach!

What a good ghost I am, oh tell him,
Quickly let him know
If he just sighs since my loss hit him
Immediately I’ll go to his side.
Tell him a loyal one is doing
Everything love can do
So that his path may be worth following,
And to bring peace to it.

Woman deeply missed,
how you reach out to me, reach out to me,
saying that now you aren’t the same as before,
when you transformed from the one who meant everything to me,
but just like at the beginning, when our days were bright.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me see you, then,
Standing just like when I got close to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, just as I knew you then,
Right down to the original light blue dress!

Or is it just the breeze, in its laziness
Blowing across the wet meadow to me here,
You being forever stuck in nonexistence,
Heard no more again, far or near?

Thus I; stumbling ahead,
Leaves dropping around me,
Wind seeping softly through the thorn from the north
And the woman calling.

December 1912.

I come from Mellstock while the moon grows faint
To see where I lived with you for over twenty years:
I’ll go in the early morning, when the mail train goes by,
And won’t need to open the long-familiar door
   Like I used to.

The change I see in my old space!
A vibrant flower border where the daisies used to be,
The rooms freshly painted, the pictures changed,
And other cups and saucers, and no comfy spot for tea
Like it used to be with me.

I see the faint faces of the sleeping servants;
They aren't the ones who cared for me during my weak and strong moments,
p. 111But total strangers, who never experienced my authority here,
Who never watched me paint, never heard my gentle song
drift by.

So I don’t want to stay in this renovated place,
I feel too uncomfortable with the differences I see,
And I head back to Mellstock to never come back here,
And reconnect with the spacious quiet, and the silent and varied
Souls of the past.

1913.

As “legal representative”
I read a letter not addressed to me,
About new styles the senders share
For clothing, in colors as displayed.

Here are stylish blouses, tea gowns,
And formal trains for ceremonies,
Charming ball gowns, hats,
   Guaranteed to be fashionable.

And this colorful, springtime shout
Of Fashion, welcomes which proud lady?
The one who before last year was out
Was dressed in a shroud.

Why? should I go to Saint-Juliot? What does Juliot mean to me?
I was only made to imagine
By some kind of magic
That so much of my life sees this place as its key.

Yes. I have dreamed of that place in the West,
And a girl living
There like she's hiding;
Fair-eyed and white-shouldered, broad-browed and brown-haired.

And how, heading towards the coast on a night long ago,
I found her all alone,
With sea-birds circling around her,
And nothing nearby that cared to know.

p. 114Her life seemed so sweet there in my mind
That she quickly drew me
To take her for myself,
And keep her with me for many years. That's how I've imagined it.

But I see nothing of that girl from Saint-Juliot;
Could she have ever been here,
And shared her light here,
The woman I thought would be my long-time partner?

Does a place like Saint-Juliot even exist?
Or a Vallency Valley
With a stream and leafy path,
Or Beeny, or Bos with its swirling mist?

February 1913.

Here I am to meet a ghost;
Where to, oh where will its whims lead me now?
Up the cliff, down, until I'm lonely and lost,
And the unseen waters' splashes scare me.
Where you'll be next is anyone's guess,
Turning around, I see you everywhere,
With your brownish hair,
And gray eyes, and a blush that comes and goes.

Yes: I have returned to your old familiar places at last;
Through the years, through the lifeless scenes I have followed you;
What do you now have to say about our past—
Seen across the dark void where I've missed you?
Summer brought us joy, but autumn created distance?
Things weren't as good in the end as they were in the beginning,
With us two, you say?
But everything is over now, despite Time’s mockery.

p. 116I see what you're doing: you're leading me on
To the places we used to visit when we were here
together,
The waterfall, where the misty rainbow glimmered
At that pleasant time in that nice weather,
And the cave just below, with a voice still so hollow
That it seems to call out to me from forty years
Ago,
When you were so alive,
And not the faint shadow that I'm now weakly following!

Unaware of what’s flying around to see,
The awake birds fluff their feathers and the seals lounge around,
Soon, my dear, you’ll have to disappear from me,
As the stars shut their windows and the dawn appears hazy.
Believe me, I don’t mind, even if Life is gloomy,
The fact that you brought me here; in fact, bring me here again!
I’m just the same as when
Our days were filled with joy, and our paths were lined with flowers.

Pentargan Bay

Beeny didn’t tremble,
   Juliot didn’t turn gray,
Thin Valency’s river
   Followed its usual path.
Bos didn’t make a sound
   Not even a faint dirge,
Targan murmured softly
   To its creamy waves.

Yet even though they, unaware,
   Passed the time aimlessly,
Of her spirit's rush,
   She had, in her bloom,
Sought and loved those spots—
   Longed and often ached
For their solitary sights
   When stuck in the city.

Why didn’t Valency
In his quiet sadness
Mourn someone whose presence
He drew his clarity from?
p. 118Why didn’t Bos roar,
Targan realize
That body and soul were separated
From their old friend?

I

O the opal and the sapphire of that wandering western sea,
And the woman riding high above with her bright hair blowing
The woman I loved so much, and who loved me back faithfully.

II

The light gray sea was below us, and the waves felt distant
In a gray sky, caught up in their never-ending chatter,
As we laughed joyfully up high on that sunny March day.

p. 120III

A small cloud then covered us, and there was a colorful rain,
And the Atlantic changed its surface with a dull, ugly stain,
And then the sun came out again, and purples dotted the sea.

IV

—Still in all its vast beauty, old Beeny looms to the sky,
And shouldn’t she and I go there once more now that March is near,
And the sweet things said in that March echo there again soon?

V

What if that wild, strange western shore still appears in its vast beauty,
The woman is now—somewhere else—whom the wandering pony carried,
And she neither knows nor cares about Beeny, and will never see it again.

As I drive to the intersection of the road and highway,
And the drizzle soaks the carriage,
I look back at the disappearing path,
And see on its slope, now shining wet,
Clearly yet

Me and a girlish figure stumbled through
The dry March weather. We climbed the road
Next to a carriage. We had just gotten off
To lighten the strong pony’s load
When he sighed and slowed.

What we did while we climbed, and what we talked about
Doesn't matter much, nor where it led,—
Something that life won't be stopped from
Without a harsh reason until hope is gone,
And feeling fades.

p. 122It only lasted a minute. But has there ever been
a moment of such value, before or after,
In the story of that hill? To one person, never,
even though it has been climbed, quickly and painfully,
by thousands more.

Ancient rocks create the steep edge of the road,
And they've seen a lot there, from start to finish,
Of the fleeting moments in Earth’s long timeline;
But what they capture in color and shape
Is—that we two were here.

And for me, even though Time’s relentless
   Routine, has taken away from view
The essence now, just a ghostly figure
   Stands on the slope, like when that night
      Watched us arrive.

I see it there, getting smaller, getting smaller,
I glance back at it through the rain
For the last time; my time is running out,
And I will walk through the land of past love
Never again.

March 1913.