Poems (Hardy)/At Berkeley
AT BERKELEY
E.R.S.
THIS place will love one poet first and best, Whoever comes hereafter. Not a stone That lies along the hillward path aloneWhere he has trod, but there his eye would restAs on a friend, should he return in quest Through haunts remembered; nothing he has known And praised but still would choose him as its ownInterpreter and best belovéd guest.Some souls there were who thought the bramble vine That twitched his sleeve to offer fruit or flower Had more than blessedness enough; while theyFound no good words to speak their debt or shrine Their love in; some recorded the one hour They heard his voice as life's own natal day.
Wise hearts have conned his wisdom, line on line, And fools have left their thrones and learned to pray; And those who loved him most love most his wayOf still withdrawal,—love, and make no sign.