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 see
And name not, death and loss,—my thought of thee
Makes wreaths heroic; marveling, though mute
Before the strength that keeps a resolute
Great 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.
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 see
And name not, death and loss,—my thought of thee
Makes wreaths heroic; marveling, though mute
Before the strength that keeps a resolute
Great 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.