Poems (Hardy)/A character
A CHARACTER
"Different from himself."—Plutarch.
YEA, it is true, my soul, yet hard to say: His outlook has no mountain nor no sky; Ships of his mart are ever sailing byOn some mean errand, though he knows the wayTo lands Elysian. You could name no day Of his not stained with lowest self, nor pry Into his thoughts and not appallèd flyThe downward drawing of his soul of clay.Yet moods there are of his that burn with gleams Of archangelic fire,—that re-illume and stir His coarsely-vestured soul, till, as once it shone,Illuminate it shines; to doubt him seems The caviling of an envious mind, a slur For which devoted love could scarce atone.