'Shut Out That Moon'

Close up the casement, draw the blind,
Shut out that stealing moon,
She wears too much the guise she wore
Before our lutes were strewn
With years-deep dust, and names we read
On a white stone were hewn.

Step not out on the dew-dashed lawn
To view the Lady's Chair,
Immense Orion's glittering form,
The Less and Greater Bear:
Stay in; to such sights we were drawn
When faded ones were fair.

Brush not the bough for midnight scents
That come forth lingeringly,
And wake the same sweet sentiments
They breathed to you and me
When living seemed a laugh, and love
All it was said to be.

Within the common lamp-lit room
Prison my eyes and thought;
Let dingy details crudely loom,
Mechanic speech be wrought:
Too fragrant was Life's early bloom,
Too tart the fruit it brought!



Richard Burton recorded a number of Hardy poems, and some of them are on youtube here. My favourite moment in this poem is the second line of the third verse, where the emphasis required by 'lingeringly' trips up the rhythm, and forces you to stop, to linger, on that word.

The image conjured up of stargazing on the 'dew-dashed lawn' reminded me of one of the sweetest, saddest moments in Mansfield Park, where the recollection of past stargazing illustrates the bond of intimacy between Edmund and Fanny, from which Edmund is gradually drawing away.

Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it”; when, being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.

“There goes good–humour, I am sure,” said he presently. “There goes a temper which would never give pain! How well she walks! and how readily she falls in with the inclination of others! joining them the moment she is asked. What a pity,” he added, after an instant’s reflection, “that she should have been in such hands!”

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. “Here’s harmony!” said she. “Here’s repose! Here’s what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene.”

“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in early life. They lose a great deal.”

“You taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.”

“I had a very apt scholar. There’s Arcturus looking very bright.”

“Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.”

“We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?”

“Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star–gazing.”

“Yes; I do not know how it has happened.” The glee began. “We will stay till this is finished, Fanny,” said he, turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, she had the mortification of seeing him advance too, moving forward by gentle degrees towards the instrument, and when it ceased, he was close by the singers, among the most urgent in requesting to hear the glee again.

Fanny sighed alone at the window till scolded away by Mrs. Norris’s threats of catching cold.

In Tenebris III: 'The world was a welter of futile doing'

William Walcot, London in Winter

Just to have something that isn't about Christmas... This completes the sequence of Thomas Hardy poems beginning with In Tenebris I and II.  All three are deeply moving poems (II, in particular, just breaks my heart), which is why it's taken me more than a year to post all of them, but this one does at least have glimpses of happiness amid the gloom, three vignettes of joy or peace, swiftly and skilfully conjured up.  And as a bonus, this poem also shows Hardy's alliterative skill at its best.


In Tenebris III

"Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit anima mea." - Ps. cxix
["Woe is me, that I sojourn in Mesech, that I dwell in the tents of Kedar! My soul hath long dwelt with him that hateth peace." - Psalm 120:5-6]

There have been times when I well might have passed and the ending have come--
Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, unrueing,
Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing:
Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending have come!

Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh,
And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border,
Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order,
Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby.

Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood,
She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together,
Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather,
Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued.

Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook quoin,
Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there,
Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there--
Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join.

Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge could numb,
That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and untoward,
Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain have lowered,
Then might the Voice that is law have said "Cease!" and the ending have come.

Transience: A November Poem, not by Thomas Hardy

I apologise in advance for posting such a depressing poem: it just has a very memorable first line, and is so thoroughly appropriate for November.  It also reminds me irresistibly of this Thomas Hardy poem, and I like to imagine Hardy and the anonymous poet who wrote this getting together for a jolly chat...

The poem is from Harley MS. 2253, a manuscript of poetry compiled in the fourteenth century.


Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare;
Ofte I sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoght
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.

Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,
Also hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:
Al goth bote Godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.

Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al by dene:
Jesu, help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.

That is:


Winter awakens all my sorrow,
Now the leaves grow bare.
Often I sigh and mourn sorely
When it comes into my mind
Of this world's joy, how it all goes to nothing.

Now it is, and now it is not,
As if it had never been, truly.
What many people say, it is the truth:
All passes but God's will.
We shall all die, though it please us ill.

All the grass grows up green,
Now it fades all together.
Jesu, help this to be understood,
And shield us from hell!
For I do not know where I shall go, nor how long I shall dwell here.

'Nobody Comes'

I'm posting this Thomas Hardy poem today because it was written on 9th October, 1924.  It's always strange to be reminded that Hardy lived into the world of motor-cars and telegraph-wires; for some contemporary colour, you might like to listen to this as you read the poem.

Nobody Comes

Tree-leaves labour up and down,
And through them the fainting light
Succumbs to the crawl of night.
Outside in the road the telegraph wire
To the town from the darkening land
Intones to travellers like a spectral lyre
Swept by a spectral hand.

A car comes up, with lamps full-glare,
That flash upon a tree:
It has nothing to do with me,
And whangs along in a world of its own,
Leaving a blacker air;
And mute by the gate I stand again alone,
And nobody pulls up there.

Evening in the Village

Evenen in the Village

Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom,
An' the men be at hwome vrom ground;
An' the bells be a-zendén all down the Coombe
From tower, their mwoansome sound.
An' the wind is still,
An' the house-dogs do bark,
An' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark,
An' the water do roar at mill.

An' the flickerén light drough the window-peäne
Vrom the candle's dull fleäme do shoot,
An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne,
A-plaÿén his shrill-vaiced flute.
An' the miller's man,
Do zit down at his ease
On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees,
Wi' his pipe an' his cider can.



This is another William Barnes poem (as if you couldn't tell!). I was struggling to imagine exactly how this Dorset dialect would sound, so I went to the British Library's sound archive and found this lovely recording of a Dorset farmer made in 1956; he was born in 1871 and Barnes died in 1886, so I guess this is not far off. And the life he describes is pure Thomas Hardy (because this is Hardy's Wessex, of course) - listen to what he says about how much cider people used to drink!

I just love the BL sound archive - it's such a treasure-trove of fascinating things! And the Survey of English Dialects is so interesting. I imagine some of my international readers will never have heard many of these accents, since you'd never hear them on TV and so many are disappearing. The most distinctive ones belong to people born at the end of the nineteenth century, like our Dorset farmer. I especially love listening to the different accents of southern England: in Suffolk this year I was fascinated to hear a young gardener who sounded pretty much exactly like this, and if you're lucky in Oxford you can still overhear people who sound like this, a lovely Oxfordshire accent (listen to how they say 'excited' and 'let us pray'). And here's a thick Crowland accent (I love how he says 'Peterborough') and a shepherd from Hampshire (a voice straight out of Jane Austen country!); here's a Kentish one from near Canterbury - the name of which the speaker pronounce something like 'Cannerberry', which I don't think I've ever heard anyone say today. And the woman from the Isle of Wight is interesting linguistically (listen for her pronouns) but very moving, too.

Joy-jaunts

Today is Thomas Hardy's birthday, so here is his very cheeriest poem. Only a true man of Wessex would put 'cider' at the top of his list of great things in the world...


Sweet cyder is a great thing,
A great thing to me,
Spinning down to Weymouth town
By Ridgway thirstily,
And maid and mistress summoning
Who tend the hostelry:
O cyder is a great thing,
A great thing to me!

The dance it is a great thing,
A great thing to me,
With candles lit and partners fit
For night-long revelry;
And going home when day-dawning
Peeps pale upon the lea:
O dancing is a great thing,
A great thing to me!

Love is, yea, a great thing,
A great thing to me,
When, having drawn across the lawn
In darkness silently,
A figure flits like one a-wing
Out from the nearest tree:
O love is, yes, a great thing,
A great thing to me!

Will these be always great things,
Great things to me?...
Let it befall that One will call,
"Soul, I have need of thee":
What then? Joy-jaunts, impassioned flings,
Love, and its ecstasy,
Will always have been great things,
Great things to me!

In Tenebris II: 'one born out of due time'

More Thomas Hardy, following on from In Tenebris I.


Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me... Non est qui requirat animam meam. - Psalm 142:5

['I looked also upon my right hand, and saw there was no man that would know me; no man cared for my soul.']


When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and strong
That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere long,
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is so clear,
The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here.

The stout upstanders say, All's well with us; ruers have nought to rue!
And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true?
Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their career,
Till I think I am one born out of due time, who has no calling here.

Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their evenings all that is sweet;
Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most meet,
And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear;
Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such a one be here? ...

Let him in whose ears the low-voiced Best is killed by the clash of the First,
Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look at the Worst,
Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, custom and fear,
Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order here.

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me

I woke up with this poem in my head. It's strictly called 'The Voice' but I always think of it by that haunting first line, 'how you call to me, call to me'... Thomas Hardy was obsessed by ghosts (especially ghosts of women, I think) and the ghostly presence in this poem is his first wife Emma, whose death is the subject of most of the verses in Hardy's Poems 1912-13.

'Wistlessness' in the third verse is one of Hardy's typical negations, like 'unhope' in In Tenebris I - not strictly a neologism (as the internet, not having consulted its OED, will tell you) but rather a revival of an archaic word meaning 'unknowing'.


Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward
And the woman calling.

The Last Day of the Year: The Darkling Thrush

Thomas Hardy wrote this poem for the last day of the year and century, 31st December, 1900 - hence "the century's corpse". The first two stanzas are bleak enough, but as Hardy poems go, this one is extraordinarily optimistic.


The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.


The pictures are from Ickham, Kent, on the last day of 2009.

A Winter Poem: In Tenebris I

The first part of a three-poem sequence by Thomas Hardy, written in 1896.

"Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum."
- Psalm 102
['My heart is smitten, and withered like grass']

Wintertime nighs;
But my bereavement-pain
It cannot bring again:
Twice no one dies.

Flower-petals flee;
But since it once hath been,
No more that severing scene
Can harrow me.

Birds faint in dread:
I shall not lose old strength
In the lone frost's black length:
Strength long since fled!


Leaves freeze to dun;
But friends cannot turn cold
This season as of old
For him with none.

Tempests may scath;
But love cannot make smart
Again this year his heart
Who no heart hath.

Black is night's cope;
But death will not appal
One, who past doubtings all,
Waits in unhope.

Mind-chains do not clank where one's next neighbour is the sky

I'm discovering more Thomas Hardy poems I like! This one can join The Division and A Church Romance in that growing category.


Wessex Heights
(1896)

There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand
For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,
Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly,
I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be.

In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man's friend --
Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to mend:
Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I,
But mind-chains do not clank where one's next neighbour is the sky.

In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways --
Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days:
They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things --
Men with a wintry sneer, and women with tart disparagings.

Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was,
And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause
Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this,
Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis.

I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there's a figure against the moon,
Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune;
I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now passed
For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast.

There's a ghost at Yell'ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the night,
There's a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin-lipped and vague, in a shroud of white,
There is one in the railway train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear.

As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers,
I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers;
Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know;
Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.

So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west,
Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest,
Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me,
And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.

A Church Romance

Today is Thomas Hardy's birthday, and so here's perhaps my favourite of his poems.  (Although that title might go to this poem instead).  It's supposed to be the story of how his parents met; 'Mellstock' is the fictional name Hardy gave to Stinsford, Dorset, where his heart is buried.


A Church Romance

(Mellstock, circa 1835)

She turned in the high pew, until her sight
Swept the west gallery, and caught its row
Of music-men with viol, book, and bow
Against the sinking sad tower-window light.

She turned again; and in her pride's despite
One strenuous viol's inspirer seemed to throw
A message from his string to her below,
Which said: "I claim thee as my own forthright!"

Thus their hearts' bond began, in due time signed.
And long years thence, when Age had scared Romance,
At some old attitude of his or glance
That gallery-scene would break upon her mind,
With him as minstrel, ardent, young, and trim,
Bowing "New Sabbath" or "Mount Ephraim."


'New Sabbath' and 'Mount Ephraim' are both hymn-tunes of the 'West Gallery' type, as sung and played by the village choirs in Hardy's novels. From what I can see from those links, they both have a rather jaunty bravura quality, appropriate to this ardent young minstrel, and this moment of flirtation in a country church.

(N.B. I observe that Mount Ephraim is in Hymns Ancient and Modern, as the tune to No.531, 'For all thy saints, O Lord').


Pictures: some sinking sad tower-window light at Goodnestone, Kent, late one April afternoon.

A November Poem

I love Thomas Hardy's novels, and have a more complicated relationship with his poetry - but there are several of his poems I can't help being fond of. This is one of them, and if you could hear the rain dripping from the trees outside my windows at the moment, you would be haunted by it too.


The Division

Rain on the windows, creaking doors,
With blasts that besom the green,
And I am here, and you are there,
And a hundred miles between.

O were it but the weather, dear,
O were it but the miles
That summed up all our severance,
There might be room for smiles.

But that thwart thing betwixt us twain,
Which nothing cleaves or clears,
Is more than distance, dear, or rain,
And longer than the years.