Public Domain Poetry And Stories - The Chosen by Thomas Hardy
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The Chosen

    By Thomas Hardy



"[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]"

    "A woman for whom great gods might strive!"
    I said, and kissed her there:
    And then I thought of the other five,
    And of how charms outwear.

    I thought of the first with her eating eyes,
    And I thought of the second with hers, green-gray,
    And I thought of the third, experienced, wise,
    And I thought of the fourth who sang all day.

    And I thought of the fifth, whom I'd called a jade,
    And I thought of them all, tear-fraught;
    And that each had shown her a passable maid,
    Yet not of the favour sought.

    So I traced these words on the bark of a beech,
    Just at the falling of the mast:
    "After scanning five; yes, each and each,
    I've found the woman desired at last!"

    " I feel a strange benumbing spell,
    As one ill-wished!" said she.
    And soon it seemed that something fell
    Was starving her love for me.

    "I feel some curse. O, FIVE were there?"
    And wanly she swerved, and went away.
    I followed sick: night numbed the air,
    And dark the mournful moorland lay.

    I cried: "O darling, turn your head!"
    But never her face I viewed;
    "O turn, O turn!" again I said,
    And miserably pursued.

    At length I came to a Christ-cross stone
    Which she had passed without discern;
    And I knelt upon the leaves there strown,
    And prayed aloud that she might turn.

    I rose, and looked; and turn she did;
    I cried, "My heart revives!"
    "Look more," she said. I looked as bid;
    Her face was all the five's.

    All the five women, clear come back,
    I saw in her with her made one,
    The while she drooped upon the track,
    And her frail term seemed well-nigh run.

    She'd half forgot me in her change;
    "Who are you? Won't you say
    Who you may be, you man so strange,
    Following since yesterday?"

    I took the composite form she was,
    And carried her to an arbour small,
    Not passion-moved, but even because
    In one I could atone to all.

    And there she lies, and there I tend,
    Till my life's threads unwind,
    A various womanhood in blend -
    Not one, but all combined.



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