Poems (Hardy)/Books
BOOKS
WHAT though "the glory that was Greece" I hold
In fee but as a faint reflected gleam?
What though "the grandeur that was Rome" must seem
To me forever but a tale that 's told,
Mingled with murmurs of the dim and old
Far sounds of remembered evenings, when a dream
Of it, stirred by my father's voice, did stream
Processionary through the twilight cold?
Far other worlds have I to travel in:
One way far as the morning star I go,
Hearkening to shepherd songs of David's lyre;
Or some far isle in Prosper's boat I win,
By stream, and wood, and freshet springs to know
Joy for the thought, range for the heart's desire.
In fee but as a faint reflected gleam?
What though "the grandeur that was Rome" must seem
To me forever but a tale that 's told,
Mingled with murmurs of the dim and old
Far sounds of remembered evenings, when a dream
Of it, stirred by my father's voice, did stream
Processionary through the twilight cold?
Far other worlds have I to travel in:
One way far as the morning star I go,
Hearkening to shepherd songs of David's lyre;
Or some far isle in Prosper's boat I win,
By stream, and wood, and freshet springs to know
Joy for the thought, range for the heart's desire.