At
Castle Boterel
by Thomas Hardy
|
| As I drive to the junction of lane and
highway, |
| And the drizzle bedrenches
the waggonette, |
| I look behind at the fading byway, |
| And see on its slope, now
glistening wet, |
Distinctly yet
|
| Myself and a girlish form benighted |
| In dry March weather. We
climb the road |
| Beside a chaise. We had just alighted |
| To ease the sturdy pony’s
load |
When he sighed and slowed.
|
| What we did as we climbed, and what we
talked of |
| Matters not much, nor to
what it led, ― |
| Something that life will not be balked
of |
| Without rude reason till
hope is dead, |
And feeling fled.
|
| It filled but a minute. But was there
ever |
| A time of such quality,
since or before, |
| In that hill’s story ? To one mind
never, |
| Though it has been
climbed, foot-swift, foot-sore, |
By thousands more.
|
| Primaeval rocks form the road’s steep
border, |
| And much have they faced
there, first and last, |
| Of the transitory in Earth’s long order
; |
| But what they record in
colour and cast |
Is—that we two passed.
|
| And to me, though Time’s unflinching
rigour, |
| In mindless rote, has
ruled from sight |
| The substance now, one phantom figure |
| Remains on the slope, as
when that night |
Saw us alight.
|
| I look and see it there, shrinking,
shrinking, |
| I look back at it amid the
rain |
| For the very last time; for my sand is
sinking, |
| And I shall traverse old
love’s domain |
Never again.
|
| Thomas Hardy
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Afterwards ] [ At Castle Boterel ] [ The Darkling Thrush ] [ On the Departure Platform ] [ The Robin ] [ The Dead Man Walking ] |
