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-spacedMy day was, fair with color, interwoven wordsOf 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 datesOf purple, buds of rose, and sky of blue, and sunOf heaven's imperial noon; so, cheerily goes my loom?
'Twere easy—yes!—to weep because the threadTurns 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 nearAnd measures all; so, brave and cheerily goes my loom.