I didn’t intimate in advance what this week’s subject would be, for I thought that you might say “Oh no! Not Poetry!” and not bother to look in. However, now that you’re here, you might as well see what I’ve prepared. I’m sure you’ll like it.
Thomas Hardy was born in a little village near Dorchester in Dorset, England. It was the novels he wrote that made him famous and most people will be familiar with those titles - Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Far from the Madding Crowd, The Return of the Native, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Jude the Obscure, etc. The plots in most of his stories take place in the fictional county of Wessex.
However, for A Touch of Culture this week I want to give just a few examples of his poetry. He always declared that poetry was his first love, and it’s now reckoned that he was one of the greatest poets of the 19th century.
I rate very highly the four contrasting poems I’ve chosen. I suggest you read them a few times. It’s also a good idea to read them aloud and enjoy the sound of the words.
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AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?
”Ah, are you digging on my grave,
My Loved one? - planting rue?”
- “No: yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
It cannot hurt her now, he said,
That I should not be true.”
“Then who is digging on my grave?
My nearest dearest kin?”
“Ah, no: they sit and think, What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death’s gin.”
“But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? - prodding sly?”
- “Nay, when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.”
“Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say, since I have not guessed!”
- “O it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?”
“Ah, yes! YOU dig upon my grave. . .
Why flashed it not on me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among human kind
A dog’s fidelity!”
“Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry but I quite forgot
It was your resting-place.”
AT CASTERBRIDGE FAIR
These market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn,
And tissues sere,
Are they the ones we loved in years agone,
And courted here?
Are these the muslined pink young things to whom
We vowed and swore
In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom,
Or Budmouth shore?
Do they remember those gay tunes we trod
Clasped on the green;
Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod
A satin sheen?
They must forget, forget! They cannot know
What once they were,
Or memory would transfigure them, and show
Them always fair.
THE LITTLE OLD TABLE
Creak, little wood thing, creak,
When I touch you with elbow or knee;
That is the way you speak
Of one who gave you to me!
You, little table, she brought -
Brought me with her own hand,
As she looked at me with a thought
That I did not understand.
- Whoever owns it anon,
And hears it, will never know
What a history hangs upon
This creak from long ago.
AT THE RAILWAY STATION, UPWAY
"There is not much that I can do,
For I've no money that's quite my own!"
Spoke up the pitying child -
A little boy with a violin
At the station before the train came in, -
"But I can play my fiddle to you,
And a nice one 'tis, and good in tone!"
The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too,
As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in the handcuffs suddenly sang
Uproariously:
"This life so free
Is the thing for me!"
And the constable smiled, and said no word,
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in -
The convict, and boy with the violin.
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For more information about Thomas Hardy including the mystery about what happened to his heart, visit - http://www.britainexpress.com/History/bio/hardy.htm
**A Touch of Culture**A Touch of Culture**A Touch of Culture**
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