—“But, Mistress Damon—I can swear
Thy goodman John is dead!
And soon th’lt hear their feet who bear
His body to his bed.”
So unwontedly sad was the merry man’s face—
That face which had long deceived—
That she gazed and gazed; and then could trace
The truth there; and she believed.
She laid a hand on the dresser-ledge,
And scanned far Egdon-side;
And stood; and you heard the wind-swept sedge
And the rippling Froom; till she cried:
“O my chamber’s untidied, unmade my bed
Though the day has begun to wear!
‘What a slovenly hussif!’ it will be said,
When they all go up my stair!”
She disappeared; and the joker stood
Depressed by his neighbour’s doom,
And amazed that a wife struck to widowhood
Thought first of her unkempt room.
But a fortnight thence she could take no food,
And she pined in a slow decay;
While Kit soon lost his mournful mood
And laughed in his ancient way.
1894.
IN A EWELEAZE NEAR WEATHERBURY
The years have gathered grayly
Since I danced upon this leaze
With one who kindled gaily
Love’s fitful ecstasies!
But despite the term as teacher,
I remain what I was then
In each essential feature
Of the fantasies of men.
Yet I note the little chisel
Of never-napping Time,
Defacing ghast and grizzel
The blazon of my prime.
When at night he thinks me sleeping,
I feel him boring sly
Within my bones, and heaping
Quaintest pains for by-and-by.