Poems (Hardy)/An invitation
For works with similar titles, see An invitation.
AN INVITATION
THE MARRIED LOVERS TO A FRIEND
COME, O friend of Both, and see our home!A cottage neighbored by a friendly brookThat sings, or sings not, as we choose to hear,But winds its own sweet way among our trees,And, meditating, musical, wanders joyouslyBelow into the open wood beyond,Alert and singing on through unknown waysTo seek—but not to find!—another homeAs dear.As dear.We two,—O summer sweet and long!—We two dwell there, whom oft the early starsFind walking through the flowery garden ways,Silent with joy, or gay with tranquil speech;Or yet they find us on the vine-woven porchListening to the streamlet drop into the woodTo wake the troops of echoes there asleepAnd chase their music to our ears.And chase their music to our ears.We twoBeside the friendly stream live such a lifeAnd know what silent thoughts move each to joyWhen wakening orchards blossom up the hills,And sweeten all the May-time morning airs;When warmer glows of summer paint the skies;When apples drop, red-ripe, among the grassThrough all the silence of the autumn nights;When, all leaf-strewn, our wood is gray and still,And faded is the grass beneath the snow;Thus our two lives together run love's perfect way.
Enter our little home, O Friend of Both,Its dearness let us share to-day with you; An Invitation And take into your thought of us its peace,Its humble harmony and beauty take,Its books, and flowers, and pictures, dear and few.
Come touch this thing of music till it singsOf light that never fades away, and joyThat grows far down among the roots of life.Or by this window sit and see how nearWe hearken Nature, who can come up closeTo overlook what life we live, day in,Day out, and praise, or chide, or smile.Day out, and praise, or chide, or smile.These grapes,Pale red, and lucent green, and purple-black,The hand of Rosamund hath intertwinedWith leaves for you; this perfect peach of goldAmong the topmost boughs I sought for you;This branch of amber plums, the bloom on yet,All these are morning thoughts of you; her thoughtsAnd mine, for you, O first of friends to us,Whose hand laid on our growing souls and heartsA shaping love and steadying sympathy;With infinite expenditure of faithThat draws its hope from memories unnamed,Whose source lies deep among the years long gone,We know it now! you gave us this great gift—(Ofttimes misread, or half-conceived, half-heeded,)—Your inner life, the closed-up volume of your heart.
Nay, we have seen and known, when we half talkedWithin the soul's most inner shrine, how youSecretly did lift us toward a starLong risen to your horizon, but yet, not yetTo ours; and, thinly veiled, your life's idealStill walks beside you guiding us;—and oursThat shall be, so are yours, and blessed forevermore.