Thomas Hardy (1840–1928). Wessex Poems and Other Verses. 1898.
29. A Sign-Seeker
I
The day-tides many-shaped and hued;
I see the nightfall shades subtrude,
And hear the monotonous hours clang negligently by.
On hills where morning rains have hissed;
The eyeless countenance of the mist
Pallidly rising when the summer droughts are done.
The caldrons of the sea in storm,
Have felt the earthquake’s lifting arm,
And trodden where abysmal fires and snowcones are.
The coming of eccentric orbs;
To mete the dust the sky absorbs,
To weigh the sun, and fix the hour each planet dips.
Assemblies meet, and throb, and part;
Death’s soothing finger, sorrow’s smart;
—All the vast various moils that mean a world alive.
Those sights of which old prophets tell,
Those signs the general word so well,
Vouchsafed to their unheed, denied my watchings tense.
To glimpse a phantom parent, friend,
Wearing his smile, and “Not the end!”
Outbreathing softly: that were blest enlightenment;
When midnight imps of King Decay
Delve sly to solve me back to clay,
Should leave some print to prove her spirit-kisses real;
If some Recorder, as in Writ,
Near to the weary scene should flit
And drop one plume as pledge that Heaven inscrolls the wrong.
These tokens claim to feel and see,
Read radiant hints of times to be—
Of heart to heart returning after dust to dust.
I have lain in dead men’s beds, have walked
The tombs of those with whom I’d talked,
Called many a gone and goodly one to shape a sign,
No warnings loom, nor whisperings
To open out my limitings,
And Nescience mutely muses: When a man falls he lies.