Poem by Thomas Hardy

A Refusal

Said the grave Dean of Westminster:
Mine is the best minster
Seen in Great Britain,
As many have written:
So therefore I cannot
Rule here if I ban not
Such liberty-taking
As movements for making
Its grayness environ
The memory of Byron,
Which some are demanding
Who think them of standing,
But in my own viewing
Require some subduing
For tendering suggestions
On Abbey-wall questions
That must interfere here
With my proper sphere here,
And bring to disaster
This fane and its master,
Whose dict is but Christian
Though nicknamed Philistian.

A lax Christian charity –
No mental clarity
Ruling its movements
For fabric improvements –
Demands admonition
And strict supervision
When bent on enshrining
Rapscallions, and signing
Their names on God’s stonework,
As if like His own work
Were their lucubrations:
And passed is my patience
That such a creed-scorner
(Not mentioning horner)
Should claim Poets’ Corner.

’Tis urged that some sinners
Are here for worms’ dinners
Already in person;
That he could not worsen
The walls by a name mere
With men of such fame here.
Yet nay; they but leaven
The others in heaven
In just true proportion,
While more mean distortion.

’Twill next be expected
That I get erected
To Shelley a tablet
In some niche or gablet.
Then – what makes my skin burn,
Yea, forehead to chin burn –
That I ensconce Swinburne!

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

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