Poem by Thomas Hardy

He Fears His Good Fortune

There was a glorious time
At an epoch of my prime;
Mornings beryl-bespread,
And evenings golden-red;
Nothing gray:
And in my heart I said,
‘However this chanced to be,
It is too full for me,
Too rare, too rapturous, rash,
Its spell must close with a crash
Some day!’

The radiance went on
Anon and yet anon,
And sweetness fell around
Like manna on the ground.
‘I’ve no claim,’
Said I, ‘to be thus crowned:
I am not worthy this: –
Must it not go amiss? –
Well... let the end foreseen
Come duly! – I am serene.’
– And it came.

1. The Supplanter
2. Afternoon Service at Mellstock
3. At the Word ‘Farewell’
4. Tragedian to Tragedienne
5. The Three Tall Men

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