  To Mrs. Thomas Hardy I do not use to listen well At sermon time, I ’ld rather hear the plainest rhyme Than tales the parsons tell; The homespun of experience They will not wear, But walk a transcendental air In dusty rags of sense. But humbly in your little church Alone I watch; Old rector, lift again the latch, Here is a heart to search. Come, with a simple word and wise Quicken my brain, And while upon the painted pane The painted butterflies Beat in the early April beams, You shall instruct My spirit in the knowledge plucked From your still Dorset dreams. Your word shall strive with no obscure Debated text, Your vision being unperplexed, Your loving purpose pure. I know you’ll speak of April flowers, Or lambs in pen, Or happy-hearted maids and men Weaving their April hours. Or rising to your thought will come, For lessoning, Those lovers of an older spring, That now in tombs are dumb. And brooding in your theme shall be, Half said, half heard, The presage of a poet’s word To mock mortality. . . . . . . . . . . The years are on your grave the while, And yet, almost, I think to see your surpliced ghost Stand hesitant in the aisle, Find me sole congregation there, Assess my mood, Know mine a kindred solitude, And climb the pulpit-stair. |
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