Poem by Thomas Hardy

The Musical Box

Lifelong to be
Seemed the fair colour of the time;
That there was standing shadowed near
A spirit who sang to the gentle chime
Of the self-struck notes, I did not hear,
I did not see.

Thus did it sing
To the mindless lyre that played indoors
As she came to listen for me without:
‘O value what the nonce outpours –
This best of life – that shines about
Your welcoming!’

I had slowed along
After the torrid hours were done,
Though still the posts and walls and road
Flung back their sense of the hot-faced sun,
And had walked by Stourside Mill, where broad
Stream-lilies throng.

And I descried
The dusky house that stood apart,
And her, white-muslined, waiting there
In the porch with high-expectant heart,
While still the thin mechanic air
Went on inside.

At whiles would flit
Swart bats, whose wings, be-webbed and tanned,
Whirred like the wheels of ancient clocks:
She laughed a hailing as she scanned
Me in the gloom, the tuneful box
Intoning it.

Lifelong to be
I thought it. That there watched hard by
A spirit who sang to the indoor tune,
‘O make the most of what is nigh!’
I did not hear in my dull soul-swoon –
I did not see.

1. On the Tune Called the Old-Hundred-and-Fourth
2. O I Won’t Lead a Homely Life
3. The Country Wedding
4. A Victorian Rehearsal
5. The Turnip-Hoer

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