Poems (Hardy)/At Berkeley
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
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 alone
Where he has trod, but there his eye would rest
As on a friend, should he return in quest
Through haunts remembered; nothing he has known
And praised but still would choose him as its own
Interpreter 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 they
Found 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.
Whoever comes hereafter. Not a stone
That lies along the hillward path alone
Where he has trod, but there his eye would rest
As on a friend, should he return in quest
Through haunts remembered; nothing he has known
And praised but still would choose him as its own
Interpreter 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 they
Found 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 way
Of still withdrawal,—love, and make no sign.
And fools have left their thrones and learned to pray;
And those who loved him most love most his way
Of still withdrawal,—love, and make no sign.