Poem by Thomas Hardy

On a Fine Morning

I

Whence comes Solace?--Not from seeing
What is doing, suffering, being,
Not from noting Life's conditions,
Nor from heeding Time's monitions;
   But in cleaving to the Dream,
   And in gazing at the gleam
   Whereby gray things golden seem.

II

Thus do I this heyday, holding
Shadows but as lights unfolding,
As no specious show this moment
With its irised embowment;
   But as nothing other than
   Part of a benignant plan;
   Proof that earth was made for man. 

1. The End of the Episode
2. The Month’s Calendar
3. Song to Aurore
4. The Child and the Sage
5. Saying Good-bye

Print

2810 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version