I traverse the vast expanses of where the noise stops.
Where the air is furiously calm in a whirl,
A raging sea of windows blur.
Let me disappear here, in the midst of the light,
Wrapped in the night like a cowl,
Fiery glad that the song of my heart
Takes up wings in my flight,
In the hours when the haunters howl.
When the days grow shorter, when the nights grow cold,
When we’re learning to put on winter clothes,
When my freckles begin to fade, and my hands tremble,
Let me go on.
Poetry and spoken word from the hand of Samu Ainesmaa
Wessex Heights’ by Thomas Hardy, December 1896
There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand
For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,
Say, on Ingpen Beacon* eastward, or on Wylls-Neck* westwardly,
I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be.
In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend –
Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to mend:
Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I,
But mind-chains do not clank where one’s next neighbour is the sky.
In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways –
Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days:
They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things –
Men with a wintry sneer, and women with tart disparagings.**
Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was,
And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause
Can have merged him into such a strange continuator*** as this,
Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis. ****
I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there’s a figure against the moon,
Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune;
I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now passed
For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast.
There’s a ghost at Yell’ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the night,
There’s a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin lipped and vague, in a shroud of white,
There is one in the railway-train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear.
As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers,
I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers;
Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know;
Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.
So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west,
Or else on homely Bulbarrow,* or little Pilsdon Crest,*
Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me,
And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.
Remembering your steps in the sand,
By the light of your smile in my heart,
Walking together hand in hand,
In the sky of my mind you were my only star.
And as it is, the moon will say to the stars,
As the night is too short to conceive any love
However, your beauty will murmur to my heart that the breeze of the night was only made for you and I
And still on the shore of life,
I will be waiting to know you just by your love