Thomas Hardy: The Supplanter: A Tale
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The Supplanter: A Tale

6/2/1840-1/11/1928


I

He bends his travel-tarnished feet
         To where she wastes in clay:
From day-dawn until eve he fares
         Along the wintry way;
From day-dawn until eve repairs
         Unto her mound to pray.

II

"Are these the gravestone shapes that meet
         My forward-straining view?
Or forms that cross a window-blind
         In circle, knot, and queue:
Gay forms, that cross and whirl and wind
         To music throbbing through?" -

III

"The Keeper of the Field of Tombs
         Dwells by its gateway-pier;
He celebrates with feast and dance
         His daughter's twentieth year:
He celebrates with wine of France
         The birthday of his dear." -

IV

"The gates are shut when evening glooms:
         Lay down your wreath, sad wight;
To-morrow is a time more fit
         For placing flowers aright:
The morning is the time for it;
         Come, wake with us to-night!" -

V

He grounds his wreath, and enters in,
         And sits, and shares their cheer. -
"I fain would foot with you, young man,
         Before all others here;
I fain would foot it for a span
         With such a cavalier!"

VI

She coaxes, clasps, nor fails to win
         His first-unwilling hand:
The merry music strikes its staves,
         The dancers quickly band;
And with the damsel of the graves
         He duly takes his stand.

VII

"You dance divinely, stranger swain,
         Such grace I've never known.
O longer stay! Breathe not adieu
         And leave me here alone!
O longer stay: to her be true
         Whose heart is all your own!" -

VIII

"I mark a phantom through the pane,
         That beckons in despair,
Its mouth all drawn with heavy moan -
         Her to whom once I sware!" -
"Nay; 'tis the lately carven stone
         Of some strange girl laid there!" -

IX

"I see white flowers upon the floor
         Betrodden to a clot;
My wreath were they?"--"Nay; love me much,
         Swear you'll forget me not!
'Twas but a wreath! Full many such
         Are brought here and forgot."

* * *

X

The watches of the night grow hoar,
         He rises ere the sun;
"Now could I kill thee here!" he says,
         "For winning me from one
Who ever in her living days
         Was pure as cloistered nun!"

XI

She cowers, and he takes his track
         Afar for many a mile,
For evermore to be apart
         From her who could beguile
His senses by her burning heart,
         And win his love awhile.

XII

A year: and he is travelling back
         To her who wastes in clay;
From day-dawn until eve he fares
         Along the wintry way,
From day-dawn until eve repairs
         Unto her mound to pray.

XIII

And there he sets him to fulfil
         His frustrate first intent:
And lay upon her bed, at last,
         The offering earlier meant:
When, on his stooping figure, ghast
         And haggard eyes are bent.

XIV

"O surely for a little while
         You can be kind to me!
For do you love her, do you hate,
         She knows not--cares not she:
Only the living feel the weight
         Of loveless misery!

XV

"I own my sin; I've paid its cost,
         Being outcast, shamed, and bare:
I give you daily my whole heart,
         Your babe my tender care,
I pour you prayers; and aye to part
         Is more than I can bear!"

XVI

He turns--unpitying, passion-tossed;
         "I know you not!" he cries,
"Nor know your child. I knew this maid,
         But she's in Paradise!"
And swiftly in the winter shade
         He breaks from her and flies.


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