Poems (Hardy)/Afternoon
For works with similar titles, see Afternoon.
AFTERNOON
WHAT, then, that winds blow chill along the shadowy waste,
The sky is afternoon, and homeward flock the birds,
And lonely sound my loom-strokes in a lonely room?
Perennial burns my fire, and calm and pleasant-spaced
My day was, fair with color, interwoven words
Of friend and book; so, brave and cheerily went my loom.
The sky is afternoon, and homeward flock the birds,
And lonely sound my loom-strokes in a lonely room?
Perennial burns my fire, and calm and pleasant-spaced
My day was, fair with color, interwoven words
Of friend and book; so, brave and cheerily went my loom.
What, then, that, day's work done, a lonely supper waits,
A lonely evening lamp when all is done?
The faithful firelight warms a tender opaline gloom,
Where stands my yet unfinished web, inwoven with dates
Of purple, buds of rose, and sky of blue, and sun
Of heaven's imperial noon; so, cheerily goes my loom?
A lonely evening lamp when all is done?
The faithful firelight warms a tender opaline gloom,
Where stands my yet unfinished web, inwoven with dates
Of purple, buds of rose, and sky of blue, and sun
Of heaven's imperial noon; so, cheerily goes my loom?
'Twere easy—yes!—to weep because the thread
Turns from the pattern here, and there, and here;
But I laid not the warp that works my weal or doom;
The woof was dyed ere I could know, or choose, or dread.
The power that laid the varying strands is ever near
And measures all; so, brave and cheerily goes my loom.
Turns from the pattern here, and there, and here;
But I laid not the warp that works my weal or doom;
The woof was dyed ere I could know, or choose, or dread.
The power that laid the varying strands is ever near
And measures all; so, brave and cheerily goes my loom.