Five Poems by Thomas Hardy

Beckon to me to come
With handkerchief or hand,
Or finger mere or thumb;
Let forecasts be but rough,
Parents more bleak than bland
	'Twill be enough
	Maid mine,
	'Twill be enough!

Two fields, a wood, a tree,
Nothing now more malign
Lies between you and me;
But were they bysm, or bluff,
Or snarling sea, one sign
	Would be enough
	Maid mine,
	Would be enough!

In my sage moments I can say,
Come not near
But far in foreign regions stay,
So that here
A mind may grow again serene and clear.

But the thought withers. Why should I
Have fear to earn me
Fame from your nearness, though thereby
Old fires new burn me,
And lastly, maybe. tear and overturn me!

So I say, Come: deign again shine
Upon this place
Even if unslackened smart be mine
From that sweet face
And I faint to a phantom past all trace.

It was what you bore with you, Woman,
Not inly were,
That throned you from all else human,
However fair!

It was that strange freshness you carried
Into a soul
Whereon no thought of yours tarried
Two moments at all.

And out from his spirit flew death,
And bale, and ban,
Like the corn-chaff under the breath
of the winnowing-fan.

The tragedy of that moment
	Was deeper than the sea,
When I came in that moment
	And heard you speak to me!

What I could not help seeing
	Covered life as a blot;
Yes, that which I was seeing,
	And knew that you were not!

Dear, think not that they will forget you:
- If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
		Therein as its shrine.

They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
- Be told, "O so sweet was her fame,
That a man heaped this splendour upon her;
		None now knows his name."