Thomas Hardy (Òîìàñ Õàðäè)

The Voice of Things

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.

1. The Collector Cleans His Picture
2. Dream of the City Shopwoman
3. To My Father’s Violin
4. If It’s Ever Spring Again
5. The Wanderer

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