My Cicely

"ALIVE?"--And I leapt in my wonder,
  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
Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)

Thomas Hardy

Thomas Hardy, was a Scottish Minister, Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland and Professor of Eccesiastical History at Edinburgh University. more…

All Thomas Hardy poems | Thomas Hardy Books

FAVORITE (0 fans)


Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

Select another language:

  • - Select -
  • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
  • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
  • Español (Spanish)
  • Esperanto (Esperanto)
  • 日本語 (Japanese)
  • Português (Portuguese)
  • Deutsch (German)
  • العربية (Arabic)
  • Français (French)
  • Русский (Russian)
  • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
  • 한국어 (Korean)
  • עברית (Hebrew)
  • Український (Ukrainian)
  • اردو (Urdu)
  • Magyar (Hungarian)
  • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
  • Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Italiano (Italian)
  • தமிழ் (Tamil)
  • Türkçe (Turkish)
  • తెలుగు (Telugu)
  • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
  • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
  • Čeština (Czech)
  • Polski (Polish)
  • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
  • Românește (Romanian)
  • Nederlands (Dutch)
  • Ελληνικά (Greek)
  • Latinum (Latin)
  • Svenska (Swedish)
  • Dansk (Danish)
  • Suomi (Finnish)
  • فارسی (Persian)
  • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
  • հայերեն (Armenian)
  • Norsk (Norwegian)
  • English (English)

Discuss this Thomas Hardy poem with the community:


Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:


"My Cicely" STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 30 Mar. 2020. <>.

We need you!

Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!

Our favorite collection of

Famous Poets


Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.