Poem by Thomas Hardy

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  ‘Cogitavi vias meas’

A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire
Made me gaze where it seemed to be:
’Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me
On how I had walked when my sun was higher –
My heart in its arrogancy.

‘You held not to whatsoever was true,’
Said my own voice talking to me:
‘Whatsoever was just you were slack to see;
Kept not things lovely and pure in view,’
Said my own voice talking to me.

‘You slighted her that endureth all,’
Said my own voice talking to me;
‘Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully;
That suffereth long and is kind withal,’
Said my own voice talking to me.

‘You taught not that which you set about,’
Said my own voice talking to me;
‘That the greatest of things is Charity...’
– And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,
And my voice ceased talking to me.

1. At the Word ‘Farewell’
2. The Three Tall Men
3. The Dead Bastard
4. The Supplanter
5. Evening Shadows

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