My Cicely

    Was faint of my joyance，

    And grasses and grove shone in garments

    Of glory to me.

    "She lives， in a plenteous well-being，

    To-day as aforehand；

    The dead bore the name——though a rare one——

    The name that bore she."

    She lived …… I， afar in the city

    Of frenzy-led factions，

    Had squandered green years and maturer

    In bowing the knee

    To Baals illusive and specious，

    Till chance had there voiced me

    That one I loved vainly in nonage

    Had ceased her to be.

    The passion the planets had scowled on，

    And change had let dwindle，

    Her death-rumor smartly relifted

    To full apogee.

    I mounted a steed in the dawning

    With acheful remembrance，

    And made for the ancient West Highway

    To far Exonb'ry.

    Passing heaths， and the House of Long Sieging，

    I neared the thin steeple

    That tops the fair fane of Poore's olden

    Episcopal see；

    And， changing anew my onbearer，

    I traversed the downland

    Whereon the bleak hill-graves of Chieftains

    Bulge barren of tree；

    And still sadly onward I followed

    That Highway the Icen，

    Which trails its pale ribbon down Wessex

    O'er lynchet and lea.

    Along through the Stour-bordered Forum，

    Where Legions had wayfared，

    And where the slow river upglasses

    Its green canopy，

    And by Weatherbury Castle， and therence

    Through Casterbridge， bore I，

    To tomb her whose light， in my deeming，

    Extinguished had He.

    No highwayman's trot blew the night-wind

    To me so life-weary，

    But only the creak of the gibbets

    Or wagoners' jee.

    Triple-ramparted Maidon gloomed grayly

    Above me from southward，

    And north the hill-fortress of Eggar，

    And square Pummerie.

    The Nine-Pillared Cromlech， the Bride-streams，

    The Axe， and the Otter

    I passed， to the gate of the city

    Where Exe scents the sea；

    Till， spent， in the graveacre pausing，

    I learnt 'twas not my Love

    To whom Mother Church had just murmured

    A last lullaby.

    ——"Then， where dwells the Canon's kinswoman，

    My friend of aforetime？"——

    （'Twas hard to repress my heart-heavings

    And new ecstasy.）

    "She wedded."——"Ah！"——"Wedded beneath her——

    She keeps the stage-hostel

    Ten miles hence， beside the great Highway——

    The famed Lions-Three.

    "Her spouse was her lackey——no option

    'Twixt wedlock and worse things；

    A lapse over-sad for a lady

    Of her pedigree！"

    I shuddered， said nothing， and wandered

    To shades of green laurel：

    Too ghastly had grown those first tidings

    So brightsome of blee！

    For， on my ride hither， I'd halted

    Awhile at the Lions，

    And her——her whose name had once opened

    My heart as a key——

    I'd looked on， unknowing， and witnessed

    Her jests with the tapsters，

    Her liquor-fired face， her thick accents

    In naming her fee.

    "O God， why this hocus satiric！"

    I cried in my anguish：

    "O once Loved， of fair Unforgotten——

    That Thing——meant it thee！

    "Inurned and at peace， lost but sainted，

    Where grief I could compass；

    Depraved——'tis for Christ's poor dependent

    A cruel decree！"

    I backed on the Highway； but passed not

    The hostel. Within there

    Too mocking to Love's re-expression

    Was Time's repartee！

    Uptracking where Legions had wayfared，

    By cromlechs unstoried，

    And lynchets， and sepultured Chieftains，

    In self-colloquy，

    A feeling stirred in me and strengthened

    That she was not my Love，

    But she of the garth， who lay rapt in

    Her long reverie.

    And thence till to-day I persuade me

    That this was the true one；

    That Death stole intact her young dearness

    And innocency.

    Frail-witted， illuded they call me；

    I may be. 'Tis better

    To dream than to own the debasement

    Of sweet Cicely.

    Moreover I rate it unseemly

    To hold that kind Heaven

    Could work such device——to her ruin

    And my misery.

    So， lest I disturb my choice vision，

    I shun the West Highway，

    Even now， when the knaps ring with rhythms

    From blackbird and bee；

    And feel that with slumber half-conscious

    She rests in the church-hay，

    Her spirit unsoiled as in youth-time

    When lovers were we.