And next I saw she’d piled her raiment rare
Within the garde-robes, and her household purse,
Her jewels, and least lace of personal wear;
And stood in homespun. Now grown wholly hers,
I handed her the gold, her jewels all,
And him the choicest of her robes diverse.
“I’ll take you to the doorway in the wall,
And then adieu,” I to them. “Friends, withdraw.”
They did so; and she went—beyond recall.
And as I paused beneath the arch I saw
Their moonlit figures—slow, as in surprise—
Descend the slope, and vanish on the haw.
“‘Fool,’ some will say,” I thought. “But who is wise,
Save God alone, to weigh my reasons why?”
—“Hast thou struck home?” came with the boughs’ night-sighs.
It was my friend. “I have struck well. They fly,
But carry wounds that none can cicatrize.”
—“Not mortal?” said he. “Lingering—worse,” said I.
LEIPZIG
(1813)
Scene: The Master-tradesmen’s Parlour at the Old Ship Inn, Casterbridge. Evening.
“Old Norbert with the flat blue cap—
A German said to be—
Why let your pipe die on your lap,
Your eyes blink absently?”—
—“Ah! . . . Well, I had thought till my cheek was wet
Of my mother—her voice and mien
When she used to sing and pirouette,
And touse the tambourine