How fast too fast?
How slow too slow?
Until we’ve passed
how are we to know?

                  We live in a speeding hour. Faster, faster, we are prodded to consume. My online inbox is awash with words. “Triage!” I enjoin myself. “Get better at paring relationships! Read fewer deeper!” Sage advice – but do I heed? Curiosity dawdles, samples. Then there’s the horrific news, each day, it seems, more dire. Jane asks, “Have you read the piece in the Times about…” I wince. I’d meant to – it was the sort of piece I want to, need to read – but it was long. Words worth reading are worth reading slowly. But who has time!

                  In my career years these decisions made themselves. I had no time and that was that, not even time for regret. I had to keep going to keep up. Now my time is my own, as the saying goes. Only that’s not true. With our ship of state sinking, who has time to read a poem? The Nameless One has stolen so much, not least our peace of mind.

                  These thoughts came, pausing over a poem by Hardy I had not known. I revere and resent Hardy for his prolificity. Emily Dickinson too. And Henry James. Why did they have to write so much so well! I’m almost relieved when an author repels me – one less to feel remiss about – only a dozen dozen remaining.

                  Beauty takes us unawares. That’s because beauty’s unexpected. We gasp, “How on earth!”

                  I was prepared not to like this poem. I’m suspicious of sing-song rhymes and complicated rhythmic schemes – they seldom sound natural and inevitable as a good poem must. Hardy is always an interesting poet, but sometimes his poems feel too adroit for the pain they contain.

                  Comparing nature’s seasons to a person’s felt too familiar to be fresh: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” redivivus.

                  Then I read it again. And again. And again.

                  Whose is the voice? My guess is a radiant country lass, dead in her prime. Pretty rhyming would be her way. And she’s so cheerful – and considerate – urging us not to mourn her. She’s so sweet and dear we mourn her more.

                  And so real! Each detail she recalls – and each word – heydays, yellowing corn, piled-up sheaves, apple, pear, plum, hinds, autumn insects, junketings, pewter, triple-timed – precisely characterizes the speaker, so she blossoms before us. (And note, the verse, like her dance, is “triple-timed.”)

                  Mimesis – that is, perfect depiction – is a miracle. This confection of exact and exacting artifice affects us as undeniably true. We feel the deceased in the room with us, can almost smell her sweet breath. What a loss! And what kindness – to attempt to convince us she doesn’t mind being gone from a life so glad.

                  She doesn’t convince us, of course. The more her presence blessed its moment, the more we miss her. Our rude harsh world needs such serene and natural beings to console us and remind us that life can be a joy.

                  This simple-seeming lyric grows more complex, tragic, and haunting with each rereading. I want to spend hours in its fresh clean air. I want to memorize it. But oh, there’s the real world – that is, the world we call real – banging at my door, shouting at me to beware – and hurry! – so much remains to know. How we ache, bidding beauty goodbye – but we must.

                  Until next time.

*

 Regret Not Me
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

             Regret not me
Beneath the sunny tree
I lie uncaring, slumbering peacefully.

               Swift as the light
I flew my faery flight;
Ecstatically I moved, and feared no night.

               I did not know
That heydays fade and go,
But deemed that what was would be always so.

               I skipped at morn
Between the yellowing corn,
Thinking it good and glorious to be born.

               I ran at eves
Among the piled-up sheaves,
Dreaming, ‘I grieve not, therefore nothing grieves.’

               Now soon will come
The apple, pear, and plum,
And hinds will sing, and autumn insects hum.

               Again you will fare
To cider-makings rare,
And junketings; but I shall not be there.

               Yet gaily sing
Until the pewter ring
Those songs we sang when we went gypsying,

               And lightly dance
Some triple-timed romance
In coupled figures, and forget mischance;

               And mourn not me
Beneath the yellowing tree;
For I shall mind not, slumbering peacefully.