The Selfsame Song

Anonymous Egyptian

Sycamore Tree

The Selfsame Song

A bird sings the selfsame song,

With never a fault in its flow,

That we listened to here those long

Long years ago.

A pleasing marvel is how

A strain of such rapturous rote

Should have gone on thus till now

unchanged in a note!

--But its not the selfsame bird.--

No: perished to dust is he....

As also are those who heard

That song with me.

~ Thomas Hardy ~

His Immortality

Malcolm Morley

Fallen Hero

His Immortality

I

I saw a dead man's finer part

Shining within each faithful heart

Of those bereft. Then said I: "This must be

His immortality."

II

I looked there as the seasons wore,

And still his soul continuously upbore

Its life in theirs. But less its shine excelled

Than when I first beheld.

III

His fellow-yearsmen passed, and then

In later hearts I looked for him again;

And found him--shrunk, alas! into a thin

And spectral mannikin.

IV

Lastly I ask--now old and chill -

If aught of him remain unperished still;

And find, in me alone, a feeble spark,

Dying amid the dark.

~ Thomas Hardy ~

When I Set Out For Lyonnesse

Paul Malouel

The Duke on a Journey

When I Set Out For Lyonnesse

When I set out for Lyonnesse,

A hundred miles away,

The rime was on the spray,

And starlight lit my lonesomeness

When I set out for Lyonnesse

A hundred miles away.

What would bechance at Lyonnesse

While I should sojourn there

No prophet durst declare,

Nor did the wisest wizard guess

What would bechance at Lyonnesse

While I should sojourn there.

When I came back from Lyonnesse

With magic in my eyes,

All marked with mute surmise

My radiance rare and fathomless,

When I came back from Lyonnesse

With magic in my eyes!

~ Thomas Hardy ~

Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?

Andrew Wyeth

The Master’s Bedroom

Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?

"Ah, are you digging on my grave

My loved one? -- planting rue?"

-- "No, yesterday he went to wed

One of the brightest wealth has bred. '

It cannot hurt her now,' he said,

'That I should not be true.'"

"Then who is digging on my grave?

My nearest dearest kin?"

-- "Ah, no; they sit and think, 'What use!

What good will planting flowers produce?

No tendance of her mound can loose

Her spirit from Death's gin.' "

"But some one digs upon my grave?

My enemy? -- prodding sly?"

-- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate

That shuts on all flesh soon or late,

She thought you no more worth her hate,

And cares not where you lie."

"Then, who is digging on my grave?

Say -- since I have not guessed!"

-- "O it is I, my mistress dear,

Your little dog, who still lives near,

And much I hope my movements here

Have not disturbed your rest?"

"Ah yes! You dig upon my grave . . .

Why flashed it not on me

That one true heart was left behind!

What feeling do we ever find

To equal among human kind

A dog's fidelity!"

"Mistress, I dug upon your grave

To bury a bone, in case

I should be hungry near this spot

When passing on my daily trot.

I am sorry, but I quite forgot

It was your resting-place."

~ Thomas Hardy ~