Poem by Thomas Hardy

Circus-Rider to Ringmaster

When I am riding round the ring no longer,
Tell a tale of me;
Say, no steed-borne woman’s nerve was stronger
Than used mine to be.
Let your whole soul say it; do:
O it will be true!

Should I soon no more be mistress found in
Feats I’ve made my own,
Trace the tan-laid track you’d whip me round in
On the cantering roan:
There may cross your eyes again
My lithe look as then.

Show how I, when clay becomes my cover,
Took the high-hoop leap
Into your arms, who coaxed and grew my lover, –
Ah, to make me weep
Since those claspings cared for so
Ever so long ago!

Though not now as when you freshly knew me,
But a fading form,
Shape the kiss you’d briskly blow up to me
While our love was warm,
And my cheek unstained by tears,
As in these last years!

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

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