Thomas Hardy (Томас Гарди (Харди))
Rake-Hell Muses
Yes; since she knows not need, Nor walks in blindness, I may without unkindness This true thing tell: Which would be truth, indeed, Though worse in speaking, Were her poor footsteps seeking A pauper’s cell. I judge, then, better far She now have sorrow, Than gladness that to-morrow Might know its knell. – It may be men there are Could make of union A lifelong sweet communion Or passioned spell; But I, to save her name And bring salvation By altar-affirmation And bridal bell; I, by whose rash unshame These tears come to her: – My faith would more undo her Than my farewell! Chained to me, year by year My moody madness Would make her olden gladness An intermell. She’ll take the ill that’s near, And bear the blaming. ’Twill pass. Full soon her shaming They’ll cease to yell. Our unborn, first her moan, Will grow her guerdon, Until from blot and burden A joyance swell; In that therein she’ll own My good part wholly, My evil staining solely My own vile fell. Of the disgrace, may be ‘He shunned to share it, Being false,’ they’ll say. I’ll bear it; Time will dispel The calumny, and prove This much about me, That she lives best without me Who would live well. That, this once, not self-love But good intention Pleads that against convention We two rebel. For, is one moonlight dance, One midnight passion, A rock whereon to fashion Life’s citadel? Prove they their power to prance Life’s miles together From upper slope to nether Who trip an ell? – Years hence, or now apace, May tongues be calling News of my further falling Sinward pell-mell: Then this great good will grace Our lives’ division, She’s saved from more misprision Though I plumb hell.
Thomas Hardy’s other poems:
921
