His Visitor
I come across from Mellstock while the moon wastes weakerTo behold where I lived with you for twenty years and more:I shall go in the gray, at the passing of the mail-train,And need no setting open of the long familiar doorAs before.
The change I notice in my once own quarters!A brilliant budded border where the daisies used to be,The rooms new painted, and the pictures altered,And other cups and saucers, and no cozy nook for teaAs with me.
I discern the dim faces of the sleep-wrapt servants;They are not those who tended me through feeble hours and strong,But strangers quite, who never knew my rule here,Who never saw me painting, never heard my softling songFloat along.
So I don’t want to linger in this re-decked dwelling,I feel too uneasy at the contrasts I behold,And I make again for Mellstock to return here never,And rejoin the roomy silence, and the mute and manifoldSouls of old.
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