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Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Versespdf/doc/txt格式电子书下载




Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Versespdf/doc/txt格式电子书下载

书名:Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Versespdf/doc/txt格式电子书下载












Moments of Vision and Miscellaneous Verses

by Thomas Hardy


That mirror Which makes of men a transparency, Who holds that mirror And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see Of you and me?

That mirror Whose magic penetrates like a dart, Who lifts that mirror And throws our mind back on us, and our heart, Until we start?

That mirror Works well in these night hours of ache; Why in that mirror Are tincts we never see ourselves once take When the world is awake?

That mirror Can test each mortal when unaware; Yea, that strange mirror May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair, Glassing it--where?


Forty Augusts--aye, and several more--ago, When I paced the headlands loosed from dull employ, The waves huzza\'d like a multitude below In the sway of an all-including joy Without cloy.

Blankly I walked there a double decade after, When thwarts had flung their toils in front of me, And I heard the waters wagging in a long ironic laughter At the lot of men, and all the vapoury Things that be.

Wheeling change has set me again standing where Once I heard the waves huzza at Lammas-tide; But they supplicate now--like a congregation there Who murmur the Confession--I outside, Prayer denied.


(Wooer\'s Song) Why be at pains that I should know You sought not me?

Do breezes, then, make features glow So rosily?

Come, the lit port is at our back, And the tumbling sea; Elsewhere the lampless uphill track To uncertainty!

O should not we two waifs join hands?

I am alone, You would enrich me more than lands By being my own.

Yet, though this facile moment flies, Close is your tone, And ere to-morrow\'s dewfall dries I plough the unknown.


(Bournemouth, 1875) We sat at the window looking out, And the rain came down like silken strings That Swithin\'s day. Each gutter and spout Babbled unchecked in the busy way Of witless things: Nothing to read, nothing to see Seemed in that room for her and me On Swithin\'s day.

We were irked by the scene, by our own selves; yes, For I did not know, nor did she infer How much there was to read and guess By her in me, and to see and crown By me in her.

Wasted were two souls in their prime, And great was the waste, that July time When the rain came down.


(Circa 1850) On afternoons of drowsy calm We stood in the panelled pew, Singing one-voiced a Tate-and-Brady psalm To the tune of \"Cambridge New.\"

We watched the elms, we watched the rooks, The clouds upon the breeze, Between the whiles of glancing at our books, And swaying like the trees.

So mindless were those outpourings! Though I am not aware That I have gained by subtle thought on things Since we stood psalming there.


There floated the sounds of church-chiming, But no one was nigh, Till there came, as a break in the loneness, Her father, she, I.

And we slowly moved on to the wicket, And downlooking stood, Till anon people passed, and amid them We parted for good.

Greater, wiser, may part there than we three Who parted there then, But never will Fates colder-featured Hold sway there again.

Of the churchgoers through the still meadows No single one knew What a play was played under their eyes there As thence we withdrew.



Here\'s the mould of a musical bird long passed from light, Which over the earth before man came was winging; There\'s a contralto voice I heard last night, That lodges in me still with its sweet singing.


Such a dream is Time that the coo of this ancient bird Has perished not, but is blent, or will be blending Mid visionless wilds of space with the voice that I heard, In the full-fugued song of the universe unending.



I met you first--ah, when did I first meet you?

When I was full of wonder, and innocent, Standing meek-eyed with those of choric bent, While dimming day grew dimmer In the pulpit-glimmer.

Much riper in years I met you--in a temple Where summer sunset streamed upon our shapes, And you spread over me like a gauze that drapes, And flapped from floor to rafters, Sweet as angels\' laughters.

But you had been stripped of some of your old vesture By Monk, or another. Now you wore no frill, And at first you startled me. But I knew you still, Though I missed the minim\'s waver, And the dotted quaver.

I grew accustomed to you thus. And you hailed me Through one who evoked you often. Then at last Your raiser was borne off, and I mourned you had passed From my life with your late outsetter; Till I said, \"\'Tis better!\"

But you waylaid me. I rose and went as a ghost goes, And said, eyes-full \"I\'ll never hear it again!

It is overmuch for scathed and memoried men When sitting among strange people Under their steeple.\"

Now, a new stirrer of tones calls you up before me And wakes your speech, as she of Endor did (When sought by Saul who, in disguises hid, Fell down on the earth to hear it) Samuel\'s spirit.

So, your quired oracles beat till they make me tremble As I discern your mien in the old attire, Here in these turmoiled years of belligerent fire Living still on--and onward, maybe, Till Doom\'s great day be!

Sunday, August 13, 1916.


She looked like a bird from a cloud On the clammy lawn, Moving alone, bare-browed In the dim of dawn.

The candles alight in the room For my parting meal Made all things withoutdoors loom Strange, ghostly, unreal.

The hour itself was a ghost, And it seemed to me then As of chances the chance furthermost I should see her again.

I beheld not where all was so fleet That a Plan of the past Which had ruled us from birthtime to meet Was in working at last: No prelude did I there perceive To a drama at all, Or foreshadow what fortune might weave From beginnings so small; But I rose as if quicked by a spur I was bound to obey, And stepped through the casement to her Still alone in the gray.

\"I am leaving you . . . Farewell!\" I said, As I followed her on By an alley bare boughs overspread; \"I soon must be gone!\"

Even then the scale might have been turned Against love by a feather, - But crimson one cheek of hers burned When we came in together.


A day is drawing to its fall I had not dreamed to see; The first of many to enthrall My spirit, will it be?

Or is this eve the end of all Such new delight for me?

I journey home: the pattern grows Of moonshades on the way: \"Soon the first quarter, I suppose,\" Sky-glancing travellers say; I realize that it, for those, Has been a common day.


I determined to find out whose it was The portrait he looked at so, and sighed; Bitterly have I rued my meanness And wept for it since he died!

I searched his desk when he was away, And there was the likeness--yes, my own!

Taken when I was the season\'s fairest, And time-lines all unknown.

I smiled at my image, and put it back, And he went on cherishing it, until I was chafed that he loved not the me then living, But that past woman still.

Well, such was my jealousy at last, I destroyed that face of the former me; Could you ever have dreamed the heart of woman Would work so foolishly!


I am the family face; Flesh perishes, I live on, Projecting trait and trace Through time to times anon, And leaping from place to place Over oblivion.

The years-heired feature that can In curve and voice and eye Despise the human span Of durance--that is I; The eternal thing in man, That heeds no call to die.


You were the sort that men forget; Though I--not yet! Perhaps not ever. Your slighted weakness Adds to the strength of my regret!

You\'d not the art--you never had For good or bad To make men see how sweet your meaning, Which, visible, had charmed them glad.

You would, by words inept let fall, Offend them all, Even if they saw your warm devotion Would hold your life\'s blood at their call.

You lacked the eye to understand Those friends offhand Whose mode was crude, though whose dim purport Outpriced the courtesies of the bland.

I am now the only being who Remembers you It may be. What a waste that Nature Grudged soul so dear the art its due!


I was sitting, She was knitting, And the portraits of our fore-folk hung around; When there struck on us a sigh; \"Ah--what is that?\" said I: \"Was it not you?\" said she. \"A sigh did sound.\"

I had not breathed it, Nor the night-wind heaved it, And how it came to us we could not guess; And we looked up at each face Framed and glazed there in its place, Still hearkening; but thenceforth was silentness.

Half in dreaming, \"Then its meaning,\" Said we, \"must be surely this; that they repine That we should be the last Of stocks once unsurpassed, And unable to keep up their sturdy line.\"



There was a stunted handpost just on the crest, Only a few feet high: She was tired, and we stopped in the twilight-time for her rest, At the crossways close thereby.

She leant back, being so weary, against its stem, And laid her arms on its own, Each open palm stretched out to each end of them, Her sad face sideways thrown.

Her white-clothed form at this dim-lit cease of day Made her look as one crucified In my gaze at her from the midst of the dusty way, And hurriedly \"Don\'t,\" I cried.

I do not think she heard. Loosing thence she said, As she stepped forth ready to go, \"I am rested now.--Something strange came into my head; I wish I had not leant so!\"

And wordless we moved onward down from the hill In the west cloud\'s murked obscure, And looking back we could see the handpost still In the solitude of the moor.

\"It struck her too,\" I thought, for as if afraid She heavily breathed as we trailed; Till she said, \"I did not think how \'twould look in the shade, When I leant there like one nailed.\"

I, lightly: \"There\'s nothing in it. For YOU, anyhow!\"

--\"O I know there is not,\" said she . . .

\"Yet I wonder . . . If no one is bodily crucified now, In spirit one may be!\"

And we dragged on and on, while we seemed to see In the running of Time\'s far glass Her crucified, as she had wondered if she might be Some day.--Ala