Poem by Thomas Hardy

Sine Prole

(Mediaeval Latin Sequence-Metre)

Forth from ages thick in mystery,
Through the morn and noon of history,
To the moment where I stand
Has my line wound: I the last one –
Outcome of each spectral past one
Of that file, so many-manned!

Nothing in its time-trail marred it:
As one long life I regard it
Throughout all the years till now,
When it fain – the close seen coming –
After annals past all plumbing –
Makes to Being its parting bow.

Unlike Jahveh’s ancient nation,
Little in their line’s cessation
Moderns see for surge of sighs:
They have been schooled by lengthier vision,
View Life’s lottery with misprision,
And its dice that fling no prize!

1. An Expostulation
2. Why She Moved House
3. Her Love-Birds
4. The Collector Cleans His Picture
5. The Aërolite

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