Thomas Hardy

The Masked Face

I found me in a great surging space,
At either end a door,
And I said: ‘What is this giddying place,
With no firm-fixéd floor,
That I knew not of before?’
‘It is Life,’ said a mask-clad face.

I asked: ‘But how do I come here,
Who never wished to come;
Can the light and air be made more clear,
The floor more quietsome,
And the doors set wide? They numb
Fast-locked, and fill with fear.’

The mask put on a bleak smile then,
And said, ‘O vassal-wight,
There once complained a goosequill pen
To the scribe of the Infinite
Of the words it had to write
Because they were past its ken.’