The Life of Thomas Hardy
visited him a couple of months ago. Everybody has been wondering what those two talked about at that time. Nobody knows. But now, I could tell you a story or two—only he doesn't like us to talk about him. But anyway, maybe, after all, I might tell you—"
Tilley never tells you, because a shy young player edges in here, nervously fumbling a typewritten paper. He delivers his message in one short breath:
"I've written a poem."
He produces a fountain pen, carefully unscrews the cap, writes on his manuscript.
"Will you read it, keep it, maybe? It's about Hardy. Here's a copy. I've signed it for you."
You read:
THE WONDROUS BARD OF WESSEX
Dedicated with all respect to Mrs.
Thomas Hardy by a Hardy Player
High on the edge of Egdon Heath,
Where Sunbeams play and mists do wreath,
In thatched-roofed Cot that nestled there
Far from the Madding Crowd and glare
The destined Bard was born.
Where Sunbeams play and mists do wreath,
In thatched-roofed Cot that nestled there
Far from the Madding Crowd and glare
The destined Bard was born.
And as a child from day to day,
He knew sweet scents of Flowers and Hay,
Whether in Cot or neath the Sky,
His waking soul was ever nigh,
To Nature—Lessons learning.
He knew sweet scents of Flowers and Hay,
Whether in Cot or neath the Sky,
His waking soul was ever nigh,
To Nature—Lessons learning.
The sprites of Woodland, Vale and Heath,
Oft flitted round like fluttering leaf,
Oft flitted round like fluttering leaf,
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