Poems (Hardy)/To ———
For works with similar titles, see To ———.
TO ———
WHEN I behold thy spirit's lofty tree Unwithered, rich in leaf, and flower, and fruit, And know it has not place to strike a root,Except in fields of sorrow—griefs I seeAnd name not, death and loss,—my thought of thee Makes wreaths heroic; marveling, though mute Before the strength that keeps a resoluteGreat soul unharmed of its integrity.Thou hast laid hold on some eternal rock Of truth and fearest no unseen disaster Of time or tide; for grievous earthly things(Thou sayest still) are but for seasons, mock Our merely mortal part, and cannot master What knows itself above the need of wings.