Poems (Hardy)/Palatire
IN BLANK VERSE
PALATIRE
"PALATIRE,"—a name, and nothing more in word,Upon a leaning gravestone in the shadeFalling across that churchyard by the wood,Where lie the generations of my raceWho held this land when living was a warWith elemental things. I knew her notBy any hearsay in my father's house,And he, who, oldest, leaned upon his staffTo hear the preacher in the little churchOn quiet summer days, but shook his headAnd answered, when I asked, "None know! None know!"
Often I went, when shadows slanted long,Softening the white and gray memorial stonesAnd dimming darkened churchyard tree and flower,Sat near, and thought of unmourned Palatire,And brushed away the swathing grass to readOnce more her name and age: just "Palatire,"Born such a time, died then,—from date to dateBut seventeen years and three poor barren months,The stormiest of the winter time.The stormiest of the winter time.AloneHer grave was, yet near by the crowded rowThat bore my own ancestral name on stones,Here old and mossed, there carved with new deviceFrom unstained marble, Other graves as old,As low and sunken, lay in groups around,But none like this, alone. As once I satIn that still mood that marks the end of dayUpon the reverent mind, I heard the soundOf wheels that stopped upon the graveled way;But turned not, sheltered by the wall of hedge,Until close by I felt the fall of stepsDeep in the deep long grass, and saw,—unmarkedBecause they noticed not,—an aged pair;She leaned upon a staff, but he, erectAnd stately, led her by the hand with careThat meant the tenderest love, close to the graveWhose loneliness so much had moved my heart."This is the place, Salome; and here she liesWho would have been my wife ere I met youHad she not died upon that winter dayThat else had seen us wed. Look up, Salome,Dear Heart! Weep not for seventy years ago."
"O Heart, kind Heart, I weep to think what she,This pale sweet Palatire, has missed and lostIn missing life and losing you,—these years,These lovely years of joy and grief with you.Had she no kindred that she lies alone?"
"She was the last of name and line, and turnedIn grief away from her old home to findSome balm in western lands for loss and dearth.One happy autumn we together dweltIn friendly neighborhood, and then we foundThat home to each must mean a home for both;And then she died. And restless, I could stayNo more where nothing was that did not speakOf loss. Westward, away to wild, unbroken wood I went for change medicinal to mind,And, hewing out from forest deeps a homeOf field and orchard, caring not for whom,I found at last the peace of mind and heartThat patient purpose gives, and better lightUpon the ways of God confirms.Upon the ways of God confirms.Years passed,And I met you, whom first I saw becauseYou stepped like Palatire; and when you spokeSome trick of voice like hers awoke the thoughtThat yours was such a soul. I looked with eyesThat had not cared to see a woman's face and sawA clear soul look from eyes as clear, and markedThe slender hand, the moss-dyed gown, the coilOf brown-black hair with curlings at the neck,And went and walked the woods and thought of you,—Of Palatire, and then,—you know the tale,For I have loved to tell it oft to you,—How I loved you for Palatire, and stillLoved both the more, the more I dwelt with you.The story of our life,"—The story of our life,"—But in the duskThey passed; I heard no more but wheelsThat crunched the graveled path, then echoing hoofsReceding in the dark. Nor ever knew whence cameNor whither went these lovers of the daysOf olden time.Of olden time.I broke a trailing branchOf roses from the hedge and in the duskI laid it on the grave of PalatireAnd marveled as I sought my woodland trailUpon the gracious tears of sad Salome,Upon the love of seventy years ago,Alive and sweet, unchanged in those sweet souls.