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(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

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[Greek Title]

Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee,
   O Willer masked and dumb!
   Who makest Life become, -
As though by labouring all-unknowingly,
   Like one whom reveries numb.

How much of consciousness informs Thy will
   Thy biddings, as if blind,
   Of death-inducing kind,
Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fill
   But moments in Thy mind.

Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted ways
   Thy ripening rule transcends;
   That listless effort tends
To grow percipient with advance of days,
   And with percipience mends.

For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh,
   At whiles or short or long,
   May be discerned a wrong
Dying as of self-slaughter; whereat I
   Would raise my voice in song.

Submitted: Saturday, January 04, 2003


Read poems about / on: song, death, life

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Comments about this poem (A King's Soliloquy [On the Night of His Funeral] by Thomas Hardy )

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  • Andrew Fincham (4/20/2009 5:58:00 AM)

    I'm still looking for the illusive magic.

    [if this percipience ist,
    thou mayest, as I,
    to other rills less shill
    dance i'the mist...]

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