Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1027

 THOMAS HARDY

'Gone,' I call them, gone for good, that group of local

hearts and heads; Yet at mothy curfew-tide, And at midnight when the noon-heat breathes it back

from walls and leads, They've a way of whispering to me fellow-wight who

yet abide

In the muted, measured note Of a ripple under archways, or a lone cave's stillicide.

'We have triumphed: this achievement turns the bane to

antidote,

Unsuccesses to success, Many thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free

of thought.

'No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial

stress;

Chill detraction stirs no sigh; Fear of death has even bygone us. death gave all that we

possess.'

W. D. 'Ye mid burn the old bass-viol that set I such value

by.' Squire. 'You may hold the manse in fee,

You may wed my spouse, may let my children's memory

of me die.'

Lady. 'You may have my rich brocades, my laces; take

each household key; Ransack coffer, desk, bureau;

Quiz the few poor treasures hid there, con the letters kept by me.'

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