Saturday, July 16, 2005
Chapter Seven, in which more Books come to The Beggars
About 50 volumes came in to the store today. Most are modern fine trade editions in Sociology and Anthropology, with a smattering of fiction. The highlights of the lot are an erotic volume in slipcase on Food, and a delicious volume with slipcase on Passion.
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I tore your letter into strips
ReplyDeleteNo bigger than the airy feathers
That ducks preen out in changing weathers
Upon the shifting ripple-tips.
In darkness on my bed alone
I seemed to see you in a vision,
And hear you say: 'Why this derision
Of one drawn to you, though unknown?'
Yes, eve's quick mood had run its course,
The night had cooled my hasty madness;
I suffered a regretful sadness
Which deepened into real remorse.
I thought what pensive patient days
A soul must know of grain so tender,
How much of good must grace the sender
Of such sweet words in such bright phrase.
Uprising then, as things unpriced
I sought each fragment, patched and mended;
The midnight whitened ere I had ended
And gathered words I had sacrificed.
But some, alas, of those I threw
Were past my search, destroyed for ever:
They were your name and place; and never
Did I regain those clues to you.
I learnt I had missed, by rash unheed,
My track; that, so the Will decided,
In life, death, we should be divided,
And at the sense I ached indeed.
That ache for you, born long ago,
Throbs on; I never could outgrow it.
What a revenge, did you but know it!
But that, thank God, you do not know.
Thomas Hardy wrote the poem, I am surprised that you are not familiar with his poetry as well....
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