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1 year agoWriting
Poem of the week: Self-Unconscious by Thomas Hardy
Along the wayHe walked that day,Watching shapes that reveries limn,And seldom heHad eyes to seeThe moment that encompassed him.Bright yellowhammersMade mirthful clamours,And billed long straws with a bustling air,And bearing their loadFlew up the roadThat he followed, alone, without interest there.From bank to groundAnd over and roundThey sidled along the adjoining hedge;Sometimes to the gutterTheir yellow flutterWould dip from the nearest slatestone ledge.The smooth sea-lineWith a metal shine,And flashes of white, and a sail thereon,He would also descryWith a half-wrapt eyeBetween the projects he mused upon.Yes, round him were theseEarth's artistries,But specious plans that came to his callDid most engageHis pilgrimage,While himself he did not see at all.Dead now as sherdsAre the yellow birds,And all that mattered has passed away;Yet God, the Elf,Now shows him that selfAs he was, and should have been shown, that day.O it would have been goodCould he then have stoodAt a focussed distance, and conned the whole,But now such visionIs mere derision,Nor soothes his body nor saves his soul.Not much, some mayIncline to say,To see in him, had it all been seen.Nay! he is awareA thing was there That loomed with an immortal mien.