Wessex Heights

Thomas Hardy

1840 to 1928

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And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause

There's a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin lipped and vague, in a shroud of white,

As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers,

Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this,

Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was,

Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me,

Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest,

I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers;

There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand

In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways –

Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly,

In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man's friend –

But mind-chains do not clank where one's next neighbour is the sky.

For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast.

Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.

I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now passed

And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.

Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to mend:

There's a ghost at Yell'ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the night,

Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I,

I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear.

Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis.

For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,

They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things –

Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune;

I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there's a figure against the moon,

Men with a frigid sneer, and women with tart disparagings.

There is one in the railway-train whenever I do not want it near,

Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know;

So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west,

I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be.

Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days:

There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand
For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,
Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly,
I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be.

In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend –
Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to mend:
Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I,
But mind-chains do not clank where one’s next neighbour is the sky.

In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways –
Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days:
They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things –
Men with a frigid sneer, and women with tart disparagings.

Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was,
And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause
Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this,
Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis.

I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there’s a figure against the moon,
Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune;
I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now passed
For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast.

There’s a ghost at Yell’ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the night,
There’s a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin lipped and vague, in a shroud of white,
There is one in the railway-train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear.

As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers,
I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers;
Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know;
Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.

So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west,
Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest,
Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me,
And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.

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Wessex Heights

Thomas Hardy

1840 to 1928

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