Thomas Hardy ( )

Heiress and Architect

For A. W. Blomfield

She sought the Studios, beckoning to her side 
An arch-designer, for she planned to build. 
He was of wise contrivance, deeply skilled 
In every intervolve of high and wide 
Well fit to be her guide. 

Whatever it be, 
Responded he, 
With cold, clear voice, and cold, clear view, 
In true accord with prudent fashionings 
For such vicissitudes as living brings, 
And thwarting not the law of stable things, 
That will I do. 

Shape me, she said, high halls with tracery 
And open ogive-work, that scent and hue 
Of buds, and travelling bees, may come in through, 
The note of birds, and singings of the sea, 
For these are much to me. 

An idle whim! 
Broke forth from him 
Whom nought could warm to gallantries: 
Cede all these buds and birds, the zephyrs call, 
And scents, and hues, and things that falter all, 
And choose as best the close and surly wall, 
For winters freeze. 

Then frame, she cried, wide fronts of crystal glass, 
That I may show my laughter and my light 
Light like the suns by day, the stars by night 
Till rival heart-queens, envying, wail, Alas, 
Her glory! as they pass. 

O maid misled! 
He sternly said
Whose facile foresight pierced her dire; 
Where shall abide the soul when, sick of glee, 
It shrinks, and hides, and prays no eye may see? 
Those house them best who house for secrecy, 
For you will tire. 

A little chamber, then, with swan and dove 
Ranged thickly, and engrailed with rare device 
Of reds and purples, for a Paradise 
Wherein my Love may greet me, I my Love, 
When he shall know thereof? 

This, too, is ill, 
He answered still, 
The man who swayed her like a shade. 
An hour will come when sight of such sweet nook 
Would bring a bitterness too sharp to brook, 
When brighter eyes have won away his look; 
For you will fade. 

Then said she faintly: O, contrive some way 
Some narrow winding turret, quite mine own, 
To reach a loft where I may grieve alone! 
It is a slight thing; hence do not, I pray, 
This last dear fancy slay! 

Such winding ways 
Fit not your days, 
Said he, the man of measuring eye; 
I must even fashion as the rule declares, 
To wit: Give space (since life ends unawares) 
To hale a coffined corpse adown the stairs; 
For you will die.


Thomas Hardy's other poems:
  1. The Collector Cleans His Picture
  2. Dream of the City Shopwoman
  3. To My Fathers Violin
  4. If Its Ever Spring Again
  5. The Wanderer

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