Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) left many poems, almost a thousand. Better known in his lifetime for his novels, his passionate impulse was a poet’s. Success selling novels freed him to write poems exclusively. His final novel, Jude the Obscure, appeared in 1895; his first book of poems in 1898. He never looked back.

Abundance frustrates posterity. Writers who slim their remains into a few volumes are easier to teach. It seems almost greedy of a maker to invite us to sift a thousand poems!

Hardy complicates evaluation by his unwillingness to write bad poems. Better or worse, sure, but a professional, he eschewed bad. Herein the big difference between a professional and confessional poet. A confessional poet asks you to ache with their ache: a poem that doesn’t stab flops. A professional poet is crafting entertainments for your reading enjoyment, seldom appearing as their self. Hardy’s poems tell little stories, often with complex patterns of rhythm and rhyme. They aim to delight, not drub.

Consider “Her Immortality,” below. Its language is unfancy. Rhythm and rhyme are so regular they almost sing-song, nursery-friendly. This lulling “ballad meter” invites us to stop paying close attention, but that would be a mistake, for Hardy has chosen every syllable with crafty care.

The poem tells a sad and not uncomplicated story. The speaker is aching with loneliness for his life’s love, whom he failed to wed, now dead seven years. (Hardy writes so often of lost early loves we feel sorry for his eventual wife.) The poet returns to the scene of their transports and

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published sorrowing I lay me down Upon the heated sod: It seemed as if my body pressed The very ground she trod.

Her vision appears and they commence a colloquy. His late Beloved is sad in her afterlife.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published She said: "'Tis seven years since I died: Few now remember me; My husband clasps another bride; My children mothers she.

My brethren, sisters, and my friends Care not to meet my sprite: Who prized me most I did not know Till I passed down from sight."

This lament, were it not poignant, would be comic. The dead complaining of neglect?

Her old flame is having a hard time too. He misses his Beloved so fiercely – after so many years – he’s contemplating suicide!

His late Beloved, reminiscent of Juliet chiding Romeo, shows better sense. Don’t you dare kill yourself, she insists, to join me, because I’m not really here, I’m a ghost. And if you kill yourself, there’ll be nobody left to extend my memory.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedBy living, me you keep alive, By dying you slay me.

Our speaker, immediately seeing the sense in her argument, vows:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published"I will not die, my One of all!— To lengthen out thy days I'll guard me from minutest harms That may invest my ways!"

To die for love is to betray love. Love insists on living. Being obliges us to be. Suicide (without good cause) is cowardice. We owe life life.

This colloquy, albeit weird, is entirely convincing. The poem’s once-upon-a-time diction persuades us this encounter happened. And the conclusion makes such sense. The argument for existing is not some incredible creed, but practicality. Dying we lose all we’ve gained in life. And no gain has been more precious than love.

But, oh, it is hard, living, weighted with grief and loss. The poet lives to preserve his dead love’s memory but her self is so so gone!

Hardy’s works were never jolly. Pilgrims who visited him in his later years, expecting gloom, were startled by his affability. He seemed happy. Why? My guess is art.

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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHer Immortality

Upon a noon I pilgrimed through A pasture, mile by mile, Unto the place where I last saw My dead Love's living smile.

And sorrowing I lay me down Upon the heated sod: It seemed as if my body pressed The very ground she trod.

I lay, and thought; and in a trance She came and stood me by— The same, even to the marvelous ray That used to light her eye.

"You draw me, and I come to you, My faithful one," she said, In voice that had the moving tone It bore in maidenhead.

She said: "'Tis seven years since I died: Few now remember me; My husband clasps another bride; My children mothers she.

My brethren, sisters, and my friends Care not to meet my sprite: Who prized me most I did not know Till I passed down from sight."

I said: "My days are lonely here; I need thy smile alway: I'll use this night my ball or blade, And join thee ere the day."

A tremor stirred her tender lips, Which parted to dissuade: "That cannot be, O friend," she cried; "Think, I am but a Shade!

"A Shade but in its mindful ones Has immortality; By living, me you keep alive, By dying you slay me.

"In you resides my single power Of sweet continuance here; On your fidelity I count Through many a coming year."

—I started through me at her plight, So suddenly confessed: Dismissing late distaste for life, I craved its bleak unrest.

"I will not die, my One of all!— To lengthen out thy days I'll guard me from minutest harms That may invest my ways!"

She smiled and went. Since then she comes Oft when her birth-moon climbs, Or at the seasons' ingresses Or anniversary times;

But grows my grief. When I surcease, Through whom alone lives she, Ceases my Love, her words, her ways, Never again to be!